When I first met my boyfriend Arnold, I never expected to find myself at the center of a Thanksgiving fiasco two years later. But that’s exactly what happened when his mother, Melissa, kept calling me by the wrong name.

Initially, I thought it was just an honest mistake. Being called “Scarlett” instead of my real name, Jasmine, seemed harmless at first. But as the months went by, I realized this “forgetfulness” was deliberate.

I had met Arnold at work, and everything about him was just what I had hoped for in a partner. We immediately bonded over silly things like our mutual love for 90s sitcoms and awful puns. Arnold always listened, remembered little details, and made me feel genuinely loved. It’s no wonder that, after two years together, our relationship felt like a dream.

But the first time I met his family, things took an unexpected turn. As soon as Arnold and I stepped into his parents’ house, it was “Scarlett this,” “Scarlett that.” It quickly became clear that Scarlett was Arnold’s ex-girlfriend who had been part of the family for nearly a decade.

Arnold didn’t speak much about Scarlett, but it seemed his family hadn’t forgotten her at all. Melissa, especially, held onto Scarlett like a cherished memory. Even though Arnold had moved on, it was clear Melissa was stuck in the past, longing for the days when her son dated Scarlett.

“Scarlett was such a pretty girl,” Melissa would gush, barely looking in my direction. It was awkward, but I tried to be polite, hoping to somehow win her over by bringing my famous chocolate chip cookies and doing what I could to fit in. However, Melissa wasn’t having it.

Soon, Melissa began addressing me as Scarlett. I corrected her gently at first, assuming it was simply a slip of the tongue. But when the mistake persisted, even in written messages, I concluded it was intentional — and I realized I had to do something.

During one particularly frustrating visit, after being called Scarlett all evening, I broke down and confided in Arnold. His warm smile faded, replaced with a look of determination.

“I’ll talk to her,” he promised, knowing this too was hard on me.

Despite Arnold’s efforts to talk to Melissa, she didn’t change — but instead began calling me by other random names, continuously frustrating me. Rather than involving Arnold once again, I devised a plan on my own.

Thanksgiving was fast approaching, and as part of Melissa’s new tactic, she suggested I make the turkey. The emphasis on the wrong name did not escape me, and I saw an opportunity to turn the tables. If Melissa wanted to play games, I could too.

Thanksgiving day came, and we arrived at Melissa’s house without the turkey. She looked stunned as we walked in empty-handed.

“Where’s the turkey?” Melissa asked, her eyes wide.

Smiling sweetly, I replied, “Oh, was I supposed to cook it? I thought you asked some ‘Jennifer’ to take care of it. I’m Jasmine, remember?”

The room went silent, with tension building in the air. Arnold smirked beside me, struggling to contain his amusement as Melissa’s face turned red with frustration. “You did this on purpose!” she yelled.

“I just followed your lead,” I replied coolly. “You’ve taken it upon yourself so many times to ‘forget’ my name. So why wouldn’t I forget what you asked me to do?”

Arnold intervened. “Mom,” he said firmly, “you can no longer ignore Jasmine’s presence. She is part of my life, and she deserves to be treated with respect.”

Melissa was taken aback, and chaos quickly followed — voices were raised, tears were shed, and other family members took sides.

Holding my head high, I stood my ground, explaining my frustration. “I’ve been respectful and kind, even when I was constantly called something other than my name. But enough is enough. I’m not Scarlett, and I won’t let you erase me. I’m Jasmine.”

Melissa struggled with mixed emotions of anger and sadness, ultimately asking us to leave.

With a reassuring squeeze from Arnold, we exited without looking back, setting boundaries that were a long time coming.

The following day brought a text from Melissa attempting to portray me as the problem. But Arnold stood by me, expressing that he would remain with who made him happy. I felt a sense of relief like a weight was lifted — I knew that, from then on, we’d face any challenges together.

In the weeks following Thanksgiving, we focused on each other, doing normal couple things and making our own traditions. As for Melissa, the reality began setting in. It would take time, but slowly, my name became a more frequent guest in family conversations.

Things are getting better, and I’m hopeful that perhaps next Thanksgiving, the only leftover will be a bowl of mashed potatoes. Regardless, I’ll be ready, armed with my turkey recipe and the love of a supportive boyfriend who’s there through it all.