Thanksgiving morning felt almost like a dream. The house was quiet, warm, and filled with the smell of cinnamon, cloves, and strong, fresh coffee drifting from the kitchen. For a moment, I wondered if I was still asleep. Eric—my husband—doesn’t wake up early. He doesn’t cook. Ever. But when I followed the delicious scent into the kitchen, there he was, barefoot, whisk in hand, cracking eggs like a pro. “Morning, babe,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “I took the day off. This year, I’m making Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has always been my territory. I’m not a celebrity chef, but the turkey?That’s my thing. My pride. My once-a-year masterpiece. So when my husband Jake — my partner of six long, messy, chaotic-and-lovable years — suddenly announced that he would be cooking the turkey this year, I froze with my fork halfway to my mouth. He said it with this over-the-top confidence, like he was auditioning for a cooking show. “This year, I’m cooking the turkey,” he declared during dinner, looking ridiculously proud of himself. Then he leaned in,

I’m Rachel, and I’m a paramedic. People always act like my job is some heroic movie scene — sirens screaming, bright lights flashing, dramatic saves, and heart-pounding action every five minutes. And sure, those things happen. But the truth?The truth is much messier. It’s twelve-hour shifts that suddenly turn into fourteen.It’s wiping someone else’s blood from your sleeves.It’s watching a mother scream for her child, or holding the hand of someone who is terrified to die alone. It’s walking into someone’s worst day over and over again… while your own