**Diary Entry**
I come from a modest, large family, but even we never lived like this! At home, we each have our own plate, take turns washing up, and just recently, my parents finally bought a dishwasher. So when I visited my boyfriend’s family for the first time, I was completely shocked.
My boyfriend—let’s call him Oliver—invited me to meet his parents. They live in a cosy little house in a small town, surrounded by a lovely garden. I was excited; we’d been dating for months, and things were getting serious. His mum—let’s call her Margaret—welcomed me warmly, offering tea and homemade cake while chatting away. His dad, Robert, was just as kind, cracking jokes and sharing stories from his youth. First impressions were brilliant.
Then came dinner—and that’s when it got… interesting. As we sat down, I noticed just one large pot of roast potatoes, a bowl of salad, and a single deep plate on the table. I thought it must be for serving, but no. Margaret dished out the food onto that one plate—potatoes, meat, salad—and started eating. Then she passed it to Robert, who did the same. Next, it went to Oliver. Finally, it reached me. I sat there, stunned. At home, we each have our own crockery—I’d never seen an entire family share a single plate.
I tried to hide my surprise, but it must’ve been obvious. Oliver whispered, “It’s just how we do things here—don’t worry.” But how could I not? I took a small portion, forcing myself not to think about where that plate had been. Margaret, noticing my discomfort, said, “We’ve always done this—saves on washing up!” I smiled politely, 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 tidying, they barely washed anything—just a quick rinse under the tap, then straight back on the shelf. I offered to help, but they insisted, “Guests don’t do dishes.” Kind, but I’d have gladly scrubbed everything myself for peace of mind.
The next morning, there was more. Robert cooked scrambled eggs for breakfast—then tossed the shells straight onto a small pile of rubbish in the corner. “We’ll clear it later,” he said, but no one did. That pile grew: vegetable peelings, milk cartons, even used tissues. Margaret explained they only cleaned it once a week to “save time.” Back home, we take the rubbish out daily—our kitchen’s always spotless.
Oliver, seeing my disbelief, shrugged. “It’s just how my family is.” But I couldn’t wrap my head around it—sharing plates, living with a pile of trash in the kitchen? I bit my tongue—their house, their rules—but inside, I was screaming, *How?!*
After a couple of days, I went home, relieved. I hugged our dishwasher, ate from my own plate, and savoured the normalcy. Oliver and I are still together, but I’ve made it clear—I won’t stay at his parents’ place for more than a few hours. He actually agreed, admitting even he finds their habits a bit much sometimes.
This whole thing made me realise how differently people live. I’m not saying their way’s wrong—but it’s not for me. Now, when we talk about the future, I set the rules early: separate plates, daily bins, and a dishwasher isn’t a luxury—it’s a must. And you know what? He’s fine with that.
**Lesson learned:** Family habits run deep, but you don’t have to adopt them—just know your own limits.
