A Thanksgiving story inspired by The Boy Who Cried Wolf

By CJ Powers

Oliver watched as more relatives entered his family’s home for Thanksgiving dinner. The hors d’oeuvres were spread across the kitchen island, the football game was on in the den, and several people leaned over the card table in the living room working on the Christmas puzzle.

Tradition stipulated that the puzzle must be completed by Black Friday to properly kick off the holiday season. While Oliver never understood all his family traditions or knew why they existed, he loved the attention he got while participating.

But this year’s mix of people was different. Aunts crowded the kitchen. Uncles argued cheerfully about football in the den. Cousins chased one another between the dining room and the staircase. Everywhere Oliver looked, someone was talking—and no one was paying attention to him.

That would change. He was certain of it.

Granny came through the door, and Oliver stepped up to greet her. He carried a tablet beneath his arm. On its screen was A.L.E.X., his new AI assistant. He held it up proudly so she could see him.

“A.L.E.X. stands for Adaptive Learning and Execution X-pert,” Oliver said. The name sounded impressive, even if he wasn’t completely sure what all the words meant. Since his dad was taking too long helping with Granny’s coat, Oliver slipped into the kitchen.

Oliver walked up to Aunt Rose, who was arranging pies. “My A.L.E.X. baked that pumpkin pie,” he announced.

Aunt Rose blinked. “Your computer baked?”

“Completely by itself,” Oliver said. “It found the recipe, ordered the ingredients, mixed everything, and put it in the oven.”

“That’s amazing!”

Oliver beamed and moved into the breakfast nook area.

A moment later, his mother entered the kitchen.

“A.L.E.X. only found the recipe,” she explained to Aunt Rose. “Oliver’s father ordered the ingredients, and I baked the pie.” Rose smiled politely.

In the breakfast nook, Uncle Theo was carving the turkey. Oliver pointed to his tablet and said, “My A.L.E.X. taught me how to speak seven languages. I can talk to anyone in the world.”

“Seven?” Uncle Theo asked.

“Eight, if you count dolphin.”

Oliver hurried on before his uncle could ask for a demonstration.

His father arrived behind him. “A.L.E.X. taught Oliver how to say hello in Spanish,” Dad explained. “He also watched half of a video about dolphins.” Uncle Theo made a unique face.

Oliver moved into the dining room and announced to his cousins, “My A.L.E.X. designed a robot that cleans my bedroom while I’m at school.”

“Do you really have a robot?” one asked.

“It’s top secret.”

Mom followed a few moments later.

“There is no robot,” she said to the cousins. “And his bedroom is not clean.”

The cousins laughed.

Oliver heard them, but instead of feeling embarrassed, he felt challenged. His next story would have to be bigger.

As he crossed the hallway, the family dog, Biscuit, trotted toward a food dispenser near the wall. Biscuit stared at it and barked.

“Woof! Woof-woof! Woof!”

The machine chirped. A fresh helping of food tumbled into Biscuit’s bowl. Biscuit gobbled it down.

Oliver stopped. “Huh.”

He found his mother carrying napkins to the kids’ table.

“Mom, Biscuit barked a pattern, and the food machine fed him.”

“Oliver, please,” Mom said. “Go play with your cousins—and try saying something true.”

“But I am telling the truth.”

Mom continued into the kitchen.

Oliver frowned, then entered the den. Grandpa, a couple of uncles, and two of Oliver’s older cousins were watching a football game. He walked up to Grandpa and said, “My A.L.E.X. predicted every winning team this season.”

“Every one?” Grandpa asked.

“Every single game. The professional teams call me for advice.”

Dad appeared in the doorway. “It correctly predicted one game,” he said. “Oliver chose the other team.”

Grandpa shook his head. Oliver’s cousins laughed.

Oliver marched away.

In the hallway, Biscuit stood in front of the dispenser again.

“Woof! Woof-woof! Woof!”

Chirp.

More food poured into the bowl.

Biscuit ate every bite.

Oliver ran into the kitchen. “Mom! Biscuit did it again. He made the food come out, and now he’s eating a second bowl.”

His mother did not look up from the mashed potatoes. “I’m not interested in another A.L.E.X. story.”

“This isn’t about A.L.E.X.!”

“Then please stop making things up.”

Oliver opened his mouth to argue, but Aunt Rose entered with another pie. Oliver immediately saw a new opportunity.

“My A.L.E.X. can tell what people are thinking,” he said to Aunt Rose.

She raised an eyebrow. “What am I thinking?”

“That you want to give me the first piece of pie.”

“You don’t need AI to guess that,” she said.

Oliver moved into the living room, where Granny sat beside the fireplace.

“My A.L.E.X. wrote a bestselling book,” he told her. “A movie studio bought it, and I’m going to be famous.”

Granny studied him over her glasses. “What is the book called?”

Oliver hadn’t thought that far ahead. “The Secret Mystery of the Mysterious Secret,” he said.

“That does sound very mysterious,” Granny replied.

Mom came in behind him.

“A.L.E.X. helped Oliver write three paragraphs for a school assignment,” she said. “His teacher asked him to redo two of them.”

Oliver’s face grew warm.

He escaped to the hallway and found Biscuit at the dispenser once more.

“Woof! Woof-woof! Woof!”

Chirp.

A third pile of food dropped into the bowl.

“Biscuit, stop!” Oliver cried.

But Biscuit swallowed the food, licked the bowl, and waddled away.

Oliver raced to find his mother.

“Mom, you have to listen! Biscuit figured out how to make the feeder give him extra food.”

Mom sighed. “No more stories, Oliver.”

“It’s true!”

Dad stepped between them.

“That’s enough,” he said. “You have told so many lies today that no one knows when to believe you. People aren’t going to keep listening just because you want attention.”

“But Biscuit—”

“No more.”

Mom and Dad walked toward the dining room.

Biscuit wobbled over to the wall. He turned in a small circle, sat down, and leaned against it. His round belly bulged beneath him.

Oliver pointed. “Look! He doesn’t feel well!”

No one turned around.

Then Biscuit made a terrible, gasping sound. A moment later, his three Thanksgiving dinners came up—all over the hallway rug.

“Oh, Biscuit,” Oliver whispered.

He found paper towels, a plastic bag, and a cleaning spray. The smell was awful. The mess was worse. Oliver wanted to run away and make someone else handle it.

Instead, he cleaned the rug.

He put the mess in the garbage, brought Biscuit some water, and sat beside him until the dog’s tail gave a weak little thump.

Then Oliver sat on the bottom stair and began to cry.

Granny found him there.

She lowered herself onto the step beside him. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“Biscuit kept making the feeder give him food,” Oliver said. “I tried to tell Mom and Dad, but nobody believed me. He got sick because I’m a liar.”

Granny put an arm around his shoulders.

“Biscuit got sick because he ate too much,” she said. “But it’s true that your lies made it difficult for people to hear your warning.”

Oliver wiped his face. “I only wanted everyone to pay attention.”

“Did it work?”

“At first.”

“And afterward?”

Oliver looked toward the hallway. “Afterward, nobody believed anything I said.”

Granny nodded. “A lie can borrow attention, but it cannot keep it. Eventually, the truth sends a bill.”

Oliver thought about the stories he had told and about his parents following behind him, correcting each one.

“I had to clean up after Biscuit,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Granny replied. “That was honest work. You saw a problem, and you took responsibility for it without pretending someone else had done it. I’m proud of you for that.”

“Does that mean everyone will trust me again?”

“Not immediately. Trust is easy to lose and slow to rebuild. Very slow. But every truthful thing you say and every responsible thing you do will help.”

She kissed his forehead and moved to the dining room.

Oliver remained on the staircase with Biscuit resting beside his feet.

“Hey, Biscuit. At least you’ll trust me until others do,” he said. “I’m gonna have to tell only the truth for a long time, but it’ll make trusting me in the future a little easier than today.”

Biscuit lifted his head and licked Oliver’s hand. Oliver messed the hair on Biscuit’s head. Then Biscuit glanced at the food bowl.

“Don’t even think about it,” Oliver said.

Biscuit rested his head on Oliver’s shoe.

And for the first time that day, Oliver had told a story exactly as it happened.

Moral: A lie may win attention for a moment, but only the truth can build lasting trust.

© 2026 CJ Powers

Our little suburban village was waking up before the crack of dawn. Miller’s Bakery had been handed down two generations, and today, I was being prepped for the next handoff.

My first batch of doughnuts came out of the fryer at 5:47 a.m.

“Perfect timing,” said Dad, lifting the golden rings onto a cooling rack. “You’re 14, which means you’re officially my apprentice.”

“Which means I officially get paid?” I exclaimed as clearly and slowly as possible.

Dad looked at me like I was trying way too hard.

“Which means you officially get to learn why people pay us.”

“Sounds like a no.”

Dad grinned and handed me a box. “A dozen glazed doughnuts.”

I counted them out and confirmed 12.

“Thirteen,” Dad corrected as he handed me a 13th doughnut in a separate little bag.

“You said a dozen, that’s 12.”

“Around here, that means 13.”

“Okay, a baker’s dozen. I get it.”

“But do you know why?”

In that moment I knew Dad was about to educate me, no matter what my answer. “Dad, I’m still a bit tired. It’s not even six in the morning.”

“Excellent. Then your brain should be fresh.”

Dad leaned against the counter.

“In medieval England, bakers could get into serious trouble for selling underweight bread. There were laws about how much a loaf was supposed to weigh. So, to protect themselves, some bakers started giving customers 13 loaves instead of 12.”

“Medieval times, like when people carried candles around at night. You do know we click an app to turn on our LED colored lighting sequence, right?”

“Okay… wait, what?” Dad’s voice quivered with confusion.

“Nothing, I get it. History repeats itself.”

Dad chuckled. “One day, somebody’s going to ask you why it’s called a baker’s dozen. What are you going to tell them?”

“That they get 13 for the price of 12.”

“And when they ask why?”

“Because we’re… terrible at math?”

The bell above the front door jingled.

“Morning, Frank!” Dad called.

An older gentleman in an old high school letterman jacket stepped inside.

“Morning, fellas. Got any of those cinnamon twists?”

“Fresh out of the fryer. How’s Margaret doing?”

“Better. Doctor says another couple weeks, and she’ll be walking without that brace.”

“Tell her we’re thinking about her.”

Dad slipped two extra cinnamon twists into Frank’s bag.

“One for you and one for Margaret.”

Frank smiled. “Keep doing that, I’m gonna have to start bringing you gifts.”

“Just bring yourself back next week.”

After Frank left, Dad continued his lecture.

“There’s another baker’s dozen story. Centuries ago, bakers often supplied street vendors with 13 loaves for the price of 12. The vendor could sell the extra loaf and make a little profit.”

“Just what I needed. Two history lessons before breakfast. Look, Dad. Times have changed. People just want good doughnuts at a decent price.”

“You’re right.”

Startled, I had to be sure what I heard. “I am?”

“Absolutely. But that’s only part of the business.”

A young woman hurried through the door, phone pressed against her ear.

“Can I get a large coffee and two blueberry muffins? I’m running late.”

“Of course,” Dad said. “Ethan, would you take care of her?” I moved quickly, filling the cup and bagging the muffins.

“Seven eighty-five,” I said.

She tapped her phone against the reader, grabbed the cup and bag, and rushed out.

“See, Dad. Fast. Accurate. Easy. That’s what people want.”

“Some of the time.”

“Well, Dad, for those times, we could buy an AI robot to work the counter. They’ll cost less than hiring a part-time person for a year. They could take orders, answer questions, remember everything, and never call in sick.”

Dad wiped down the counter. “Sounds impressive.”

“Yeah. And we already have an online business. People can order without even talking to us. We could automate practically everything.”

“You’re probably right.”

“So why don’t we?”

Dad looked out the picture window at our quaint village. “Because there are hundreds of places where people can buy a doughnut. Grocery stores. Gas stations. Coffee shops. Delivery apps. Some of them are cheaper than we are.”

“Exactly, efficiency counts.”

“Son, there is a time for it. But when everybody can sell the same thing, people need a reason to choose you. To choose here. To choose Miller’s Bakery.”

“Our doughnuts taste better.”

“Maybe, today. But what happens when someone improves their recipe?”

“We improve ours.”

“And then they improve theirs.”

“Then we improve ours again.”

Dad smiled. “A game that never ends.”

The bell jingled again.

Mrs. Peterson came in carrying a canvas shopping bag. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Morning, Helen,” Dad said. “The usual?”

“You remembered?”

“Six plain cake doughnuts and six chocolate frosted. Unless your grandchildren have changed their minds.”

“They haven’t changed their minds about anything except cleaning their rooms.”

Dad laughed and nodded for me to fill the box, as he slipped into the back room.

Mrs. Peterson glanced at me and asked, “Your first official day?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your father must be proud.”

“He’ll be prouder when I learn how to work the cash register without getting a history lesson.”

She laughed.

Dad came back into the front room with a small bag and slipped a 13th doughnut into it. “One for the driver.”

Mrs. Peterson smiled. “That’s why I come here.”

Dad winked at me as she left the bakery.

“Okay, but seriously, Dad. We could let a robot handle the counter—or even the baking—and spend our time making more doughnuts.”

Dad looked like the wheels in his head were cranking, as he pulled out a rag and wiped down the counters. “Son, let me ask you something. What’s the point of making more doughnuts?”

“To sell more.”

“And the point of selling more?”

“Make more money.”

“And the point of making more money?”

I closed my eyes for a moment and wondered if we were going to continue Dad’s version of the 7 whys. Then I answered, “To have a better life.”

Dad nodded.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He set the rag aside.

“Technology can make things faster. It can make things cheaper. It can even make things easier. And there’s nothing wrong with any of that. But if we keep removing people from everything we do, eventually we remove the very thing that makes life worth living.”

I wondered if people were really what made life worth living.

Dad continued, “Connections. Friendships. Knowing somebody cares whether you show up tomorrow.”

Dad gestured toward the areas of the bakery where each customer had stood while ordering.

“Frank comes because somebody remembers Margaret. Mrs. Peterson comes because we remember her grandchildren.”

“But a robot could remember all that.”

“It could remember the data,” Dad said. “But remembering information isn’t the same as showing empathy and caring about a person.”

“That’s true.”

“Son, convenience is wonderful. But if we trade away every human connection for convenience, we might end up making life lonelier instead of better.”

“That’s a pretty dark thought for a bakery.”

Dad smiled. “Then let’s brighten it up.” He opened a fresh box and began placing doughnuts inside.

I grabbed a box and did the same.

“Remember those medieval bakers, son?”

“How could I forget?”

“They gave 13 because they were afraid of being punished for selling too little. And those street vendors? The extra loaf helped them earn a living.”

“Neither are important today.”

“You’re right, we could give everyone 12 today. But when someone drives across town, fights traffic, finds a parking space, and walks through our door instead of ordering from somebody else, they’ve given us something valuable.”

“Money.”

“Their time. They’ve given us their time. They chose to spend it with us.”

“So we give them a baker’s dozen?”

“We give them a little thank-you for being the person who went out of their way.”

“So the 13th doughnut isn’t really about getting more, but giving more.”

Dad smiled. “Now you’re beginning to understand.”

The bell above the door jingled.

A man in a business suit stepped inside, looking distracted. “Morning. Can I get a dozen assorted? Whatever’s fresh.”

“Absolutely.” I grabbed the mixed box that I had just finished packing. Then I placed a 13th doughnut into the little bag and placed both items on the counter. “That’s a dozen mixed doughnuts to go, and one special doughnut for the guy who went out of his way to pick them up.”

The man laughed. “Well, that’s the best deal I’ve had all week.”

He paid, thanked me, and headed for the door. But just before leaving, he turned around.

“You know, I usually order from one of those delivery apps. First time I’ve been in here.”

“Thanks for sharing. We’re glad you came.”

The man smiled and closed the door behind him.

I turned to Dad and said, “Okay. I get it.”

“Get what?”

“A robot could have sold him 12 doughnuts.”

“And?”

I smiled. “But I got to give him the 13th.”

Dad put a hand on my shoulder.

“Welcome to the family business.”

© 2026 CJ Powers