A Dreadful Supper: How the In-Laws Made a Mother Doubt Her Son’s Future
In a quiet village near York, Eleanor prepared for a momentous occasion—meeting the family of her son Thomas’s intended bride. She imagined a warm evening filled with heartfelt conversation, delicious food, and genuine smiles. Thomas had assured her that the parents of his sweetheart, Matilda, were simple, kind folk, and Eleanor hoped this visit would be the beginning of a strong bond between the families. But instead of a warm welcome, she was met with disappointment that twisted her expectations and left her questioning whether her son should tie himself to such a household.
The journey to the in-laws’ home took several hours, and Eleanor and Thomas arrived by evening. Though the weather was grey, Eleanor’s spirits remained high. She wore her finest dress and brought a freshly baked pie as a token of respect, expecting to be received with warmth. Yet from the very doorstep, her hopes began to crumble. Matilda’s mother, Margaret, barely glanced at them before uttering a curt, “Come through to the parlour and wait.” Eleanor faltered but followed her son, telling herself it was merely an awkward start.
The parlour was cramped, with worn furniture and a chill in the air. Eleanor shivered—it was as if the hearth had not been lit in days. Margaret vanished into the kitchen, while Matilda’s father, William, muttered something about unfinished business and slipped out to the yard. Thomas tried to ease the tension, but Eleanor felt like an intruder. She waited to be invited to the table, but time dragged on, and nothing happened. Matilda, with a nervous smile, offered tea, but even it tasted weak and lukewarm, served in chipped cups. Eleanor attempted polite conversation, but replies were clipped, and the in-laws’ glances were indifferent.
An hour passed, then another. Hunger gnawed at her, and Eleanor’s patience waned. She whispered to Thomas, “When will they serve supper? We’re their guests!” Her son only shrugged, accustomed to his betrothed’s family’s odd ways. At last, Margaret reappeared with plates. Eleanor had expected generous hospitality, as was customary in her own home, but what greeted her was a shock. On the table sat a bowl of watery broth with three floating potatoes, and a plate of meat pies that smelled of rancid lard. Stale bread and pickled cabbage, sour to the nose, accompanied the meagre spread. “Eat, don’t be shy,” Margaret tossed out before disappearing again.
Eleanor stared at the food, feeling resentment boil in her chest. This was no supper—it was an insult. She forced down a spoonful of broth, but the taste was foul. Thomas ate in silence, as if oblivious, while Matilda prodded at her plate, avoiding Eleanor’s gaze. William returned briefly, grumbling about unfinished chores before vanishing once more. Eleanor tried to engage them in talk, but the responses were grudging, as though the guests were a burden. Her lovingly baked pie remained untouched in the corner.
When tea was served—again lukewarm, with a stale aftertaste—Eleanor could bear no more. “Why so little?” she murmured to Thomas. “We came to meet them properly, yet it feels like we’re barely tolerated.” Her son hesitated, mumbling that this was how things always were in Matilda’s home. But to Eleanor, it was far more than just “how things were.” She remembered how her own family welcomed guests with warmth, how the table groaned under the weight of good food. Here? A pitiful broth, stale bread, cold glances. This was no hospitality—it was humiliation.
The journey home was heavy with thought. Eleanor watched her silent son, her heart tight with unease. She pictured Thomas bound to a family where indifference and miserliness ruled. “Will he spend his life scraping by on such scraps?” she wondered. “In a household that scorns guests and cares nothing for kinship?” She knew Thomas loved Matilda for her kindness, but this night had revealed a grim truth—the girl had grown up in a cold house, and that chill could seep into their future.
At home, Eleanor lay awake all night. Torn between protecting her son and fearing she might wound his choice, she wrestled with her words. How could she tell Thomas this family was not the one she wished for him? She feared her honesty would break his heart, but silence was worse. Eleanor vowed to speak with him—but how to phrase her misgivings? Would he understand, or would love blind him? And what would their future hold if this marriage went ahead?
