I come from a modest, large family, but even we didn’t have it like this! At home, we all eat from our own plates, take turns washing up, and not long ago, my parents finally bought a dishwasher. So, when I visited my boyfriend’s family and saw how things worked in their house, I was completely stunned.
My boyfriend—let’s call him Oliver—invited me to meet his parents. They live in a small market town, in a cosy house with a garden. I was excited to get to know his family, as Oliver and I had been dating for a few months, and it felt serious. His mum, let’s name her Margaret, welcomed me warmly—smiling, asking about my life, serving tea with homemade cake. Oliver’s dad, whom I’ll call Edward, was just as kind—cracking jokes and telling stories from his youth. First impressions were great.
Then came dinner, and that’s when things got interesting. As we sat at the table, I noticed only one large pot of potatoes, a bowl of salad, and—just one deep plate! I assumed it was for serving, but no. Margaret scooped potatoes and meat onto the plate, added salad, and started eating. Then she passed it to Edward. He piled on his portion and ate—from the same plate! Next, it went to Oliver, and finally, to me. I sat there frozen, unsure how to react. At home, everyone has their own plate, and I’d never seen a whole family share one.
I tried to hide my shock, but it must’ve shown. Oliver whispered, “It’s just how we do things, don’t worry.” But how could I not? I took a small helping, trying not to think about where that plate had been. Margaret, noticing my discomfort, said, “We’ve always done this—saves on washing up and water!” I forced a smile, but all I could think was: How is this normal?
After dinner, I hoped it was a one-time thing. It wasn’t. When it was time to clean up, I realised they didn’t wash dishes properly. Margaret just rinsed the plate and put it away. The pot and salad bowl got a quick splash—barely clean. I offered to help, but was told, “Guests don’t do the washing.” Sweet, but I’d have gladly scrubbed everything myself just to feel sure it was clean.
The next day, another oddity. Edward made breakfast—scrambled eggs. He cracked them into the pan, then tossed the shells… straight onto the kitchen floor, where a small pile of rubbish was growing. I thought I misheard when he said, “We’ll clear it later, no big deal.” But no one did! The pile grew—peelings, milk cartons, even used tissues. Margaret explained they tidied once a week to “save time.” I was horrified. At home, we take the bins out daily, and the kitchen always sparkles.
Oliver, seeing my unease, insisted, “It’s just our way—normal for us.” But I couldn’t fathom how sharing plates and living with a kitchen rubbish pile was normal. I bit my tongue—their house, their rules—but inside, I was screaming, How is this okay?
After a couple of days, I left, relieved. Back home, I hugged our dishwasher and happily ate from my own plate. Oliver and I are still together, but I’ve vowed never to stay at his parents’ longer than a few hours. He admitted he sometimes finds their habits embarrassing too.
This whole thing made me realise how differently people live. I’m not saying their way is wrong—it’s just not for me. Now, when we discuss our future, I’m clear: We’ll each have our own plates, take the bins out daily, and a dishwasher isn’t a luxury—it’s essential. And you know what? Oliver agrees.
