I come from a modest, large family, but even we never had anything like this! At home, we always ate from separate plates, took turns washing up, and my parents recently splurged on a dishwasher. So, when I visited my boyfriend’s family for the first time, I was utterly shocked.
My boyfriend, let’s call him Oliver, invited me to his parents’ place. They lived in a cosy cottage in a quaint little village. I was excited to meet them—after all, we’d been dating for months, and things seemed serious. His mother, let’s name her Elizabeth, welcomed me warmly, offering tea and a slice of homemade cake, while his father, Henry, charmed me with jokes and stories from his youth. First impressions were lovely.
Then came dinner—and that’s when things took a turn. As we sat at the table, I noticed just one large pot of mashed potatoes, a bowl of salad, and a single deep plate. I assumed it was for serving, but no. Elizabeth dished up some food onto the plate and began eating. Then she passed it to Henry, who helped himself before handing it to Oliver. Finally, it came to me. I froze. At home, everyone had their own plate—sharing one was unheard of.
I tried to hide my surprise, but Oliver whispered, “It’s just how we do things here.” How could I not react? I took a small portion, trying not to dwell on the fact the plate had been passed around. Elizabeth noticed my discomfort and said, “It saves time and water—less washing up!” I forced a smile, but all I could think was, *How is this normal?*
After dinner, I hoped it was a one-off, but no. When it came to washing up, Elizabeth simply rinsed the plate and put it away. The pots got a quick splash of water—no proper scrub. I offered to help, but they insisted guests shouldn’t clean up. Kind, but I’d have gladly done it myself for peace of mind.
The next morning brought another shock. Henry cracked eggs into a pan and tossed the shells… straight onto the kitchen floor, where a small pile of rubbish was growing—vegetable peels, milk cartons, used tissues. Elizabeth explained they cleaned it up once a week to “save time.” Back home, we took out the bin daily, and our kitchen sparkled.
Oliver saw my dismay and said, “It’s just our way.” But I couldn’t fathom how sharing a plate or living with a rubbish pile was acceptable. I bit my tongue—their house, their rules—but inside, I was screaming, *How can you live like this?*
When I finally left, I hugged my dishwasher and savoured a meal on my own plate. Oliver and I kept dating, but I vowed never to stay at his parents’ longer than necessary. He admitted even he found their habits embarrassing sometimes.
This whole experience taught me how differently people live. I won’t say their way is wrong—but it’s not for me. Now, when Oliver and I talk about the future, I’m clear: we’ll have separate plates, take the bins out daily, and a dishwasher isn’t a luxury—it’s essential. And you know what? He agrees. Sometimes, love means compromising—but never on basic hygiene.
