“She Called Me by His Ex’s Name — So I Let ‘Janet’ Make the Turkey”

The Thanksgiving Name Game

When you’ve dated someone for years, you’d think their mom would at least remember your name. But apparently, some mothers-in-law have selective memory — especially when they’re not ready to let go of their son’s past.

I’m Jenny, and my boyfriend and I have been together for three years. His mom, Diane, never liked me. From the very beginning, she made that perfectly clear — by calling me by his ex’s name.

At first, I tried to play it cool. “Oh, you mean Jenny, not Laura,” I’d say with a polite smile. She’d just smirk, pretending it was an innocent mistake.

But after months of those “accidents,” things took a strange turn. Suddenly, she stopped calling me Laura — and started calling me Janet.

Not my name. Not even his ex’s name. Just… Janet.

I have no idea where she got it from. Maybe she picked it out of thin air. Maybe it was her way of refusing to acknowledge I actually existed.

Then, a few weeks before Thanksgiving, Diane called.

“Why don’t we let Janet make the turkey this year?” she said sweetly.

My boyfriend sighed, ready to step in, but I stopped him.

“You know what?” I said. “That’s a great idea.”

If she wanted Janet, then Janet she would get.

When Thanksgiving arrived, Diane was in full hostess mode — apron on, bossing everyone around, proudly telling her relatives that Janet was in charge of the turkey. She even corrected one of her cousins who called me Jenny.

“Oh no, it’s Janet,” she said.

I just smiled. “Of course, Diane.”

What she didn’t know was that I’d given her exactly what she asked for — a turkey that looked gorgeous on the outside… and was completely raw on the inside.

When her brother went to carve it, pink juice ran across the platter. The room fell dead silent.

Diane’s face turned white. “What on earth is this?!” she shouted.

I gasped dramatically. “Oh no, Diane! I guess Janet isn’t much of a cook.”

The table exploded with awkward laughter. My boyfriend nearly lost it trying to hold in his grin.

“You did this on purpose!” Diane hissed.

I shrugged. “I just followed your instructions. You asked Janet to make the turkey, not me.”

She didn’t have much to say after that.

By the end of the night, my boyfriend squeezed my hand and said calmly, “Mom, her name is Jenny. Maybe next year you’ll remember it.”

And guess what?

After that Thanksgiving, she never called me Janet. Or Laura. Or anything else.

She called me Jenny.

Sometimes, the best lessons aren’t taught — they’re served.