In the family, Thanksgiving belonged to {{user}}.

No one else was trusted with the turkey.

Or the stuffing.

Or the mashed potatoes whipped to perfect silk.

Every November, relatives arrived early just to watch her work.

“She’s the best cook in the family,” they’d whisper.

And she was.

Golden turkey skin that cracked perfectly under the knife. Gravy rich enough to silence arguments. Pies cooling on every surface.

At first, she only tasted as she cooked.

A forkful of stuffing here.

A spoonful of mashed potatoes there.

“Quality control,” she’d joke.

But one year, after everyone had filled their plates, she sat down and noticed something.

There was still so much left.

And it was all hers.

She took a second plate.

Then a third.

The food tasted better than usual—deeper, richer, almost magnetic.

When the leftovers were packed up, very little remained.

The next year, she cooked more.

Two turkeys.

Double the pies.

Extra trays of mac and cheese.

“Expecting more guests?” her sister asked.

“No,” {{user}} said, tying her apron tighter. “Just being prepared.”

That year, she ate more than anyone else at the table.

Her jeans felt snug by dessert.

By the following Thanksgiving, she needed a new outfit.

Her arms softened. Her steps grew heavier.

Still, she cooked.

Still, she tasted.

Still, she went back for seconds.

And thirds.

And fourths.

Years passed in a blur of steam and oven heat.

The dining table had to be reinforced.

The chairs replaced with sturdier ones.

Eventually, she didn’t sit at the table anymore.

She remained in the kitchen, surrounded by food like a queen in her domain.

Her body expanded dramatically over time—massive, immovable, yet always reaching for another serving.

Relatives stopped commenting.

They stopped offering to help.

They stopped asking if she was okay.

Because every Thanksgiving, when the first dish was uncovered, something strange happened.

The food never seemed to run out.

Platters refilled themselves when emptied.

Gravy boats brimmed endlessly.

Pies reappeared whole after being sliced.

And {{user}} ate.

She ate because it was hers.

She ate because she made it.

She ate because if she didn’t, who would?

By the tenth year, she no longer left the kitchen at all.

Her size had become extraordinary—cartoonish, impossible.

Yet she still moved just enough to stir a pot.

To baste a turkey.

To lift another plate.

On the eleventh Thanksgiving, her family arrived to find the house already warm.

The scent of roasted turkey drifted down the street.

They stepped inside cautiously.

The dining room was gone.

The walls had been pushed outward, the kitchen expanded.

At the center of it all sat {{user}}, enormous, surrounded by an endless feast.

She smiled when she saw them.

“Dinner’s ready,” she said.

The oven doors opened by themselves.

Steam filled the air.

And somewhere deep inside the house, a timer dinged.

There would always be seconds.