This particular holiday began at 6 a.m. as I prepped for a house full of guests. Ryan, meanwhile, woke up around 11 a.m., sprawled on the couch, and hollered at some football game.

By noon, the turkey was roasting, the green bean casserole was ready to go, and my daughters were busy drawing hand turkeys at the kitchen table. That’s when the doorbell rang. Frowning, I wiped my hands on my apron and muttered, “Who delivers on Thanksgiving?”

Outside stood a cheerful delivery guy holding a box that smelled divine. “Special delivery,” he said, thrusting it into my hands.

“I’m sorry. We didn’t order this,” I said, confused.

“Lady, I don’t care. I just want to finish this day quickly. Enjoy!” he replied before walking off.

I carried the box to the counter, wondering if Ryan had done something thoughtful for once in his life.

Inside was a perfectly roasted turkey, golden brown and magazine-worthy. My heart softened. Could he really have done this for me? Though I wished he would’ve told me before I put another turkey in the oven.

Then I saw the note.

Tucked beside the turkey was a card with sharp, cursive handwriting: “Thank you for sharing your husband with me! Happy Thanksgiving. XO, Kelsey.”

I read it twice, stunned. Sharing my husband? Was this some sick joke? I glanced at Ryan, still glued to the TV, shouting at the screen.

Taking advantage of his obliviousness, I picked up his phone from the counter. Just then, the lock screen lit up with a notification from someone named “Kelsey .”

My heart sank. I didn’t want to snoop, but I had to know. Ryan had never given me his passcode, but I knew it: the six digits of Peyton Manning’s birthday. Football trumped everything, even his family.