I never told them about the cooking segment I did on Channel 9. That ran every Saturday from 1982 until 1994. I showed people how to stretch a chicken into three meals and how to make pie crust that doesn’t fall apart.

The cookbook came out in 1987. It sold fourteen thousand copies just in this part of the state. I kept one copy on the shelf behind the canned peaches. I figured nobody needed to know.

Then last Thanksgiving he really got going. He had already told me the turkey needed brining. After that he moved on to the gravy.

“You’ve got to whisk it constantly,” he said. “Otherwise you get those lumps.”

I set the spoon down. My hands felt steady, which surprised me. I walked over to the pantry and opened the door. The book was right where I left it, the spine faded from the light.

I pulled it out and set it on the counter. The cover still had my name on it in that old font they used back then.

“Derek,” I said, “I hosted a cooking show for twelve years. This is the book that came out of it.”

He stopped mid-sentence. My daughter came over and picked up the book. She flipped through the pages without saying anything at first.

“You never told me,” she said finally.

I told her it didn’t seem important anymore. She looked at Derek and then back at me. Nobody moved for a minute.

Derek cleared his throat and said, “Well, I guess you know what you’re doing then.”

That was all he said about it. We ate the meal with the lumpy gravy and the turkey that hadn’t been brined. My daughter kept glancing at the book on the counter. Derek didn’t correct another thing that night.

Later, after they left, I put the book back behind the peaches. I washed the dishes and turned off the lights. The house felt quiet in a way it hadn’t for years.

I still see them every Sunday. Derek is polite now. He asks how I made something instead of telling me how to fix it. My daughter brings flowers sometimes and we don’t talk about the book.

But every once in a while I catch myself wondering if I should have just kept letting him talk. It was easier when nobody knew. Now the quiet feels heavier than it used to.

The next Sunday felt different from the minute they walked in the door. The chicken had been in the oven since morning and the whole house smelled like rosemary and the onions I always tuck underneath. Derek took his usual seat and my daughter set down the flowers she brings now, the kind with the baby’s breath mixed in.

She looked at the table and said “This looks nice, Mom.”