I come from a large but modest family, yet even we never lived like this! In my home, everyone has their own plate, and we take turns washing up. Just last year, my parents finally bought a dishwasher. So when I visited my boyfriend’s family for the first time, I was utterly shocked.
My boyfriend—let’s call him Thomas—invited me to stay with his parents in their cottage in a quaint little village. I was eager to meet them, as Thomas and I had been courting for several months, and things seemed serious. His mother, whom I’ll name Margaret, welcomed me warmly, serving tea and homemade scones while asking about my life. His father, Alfred, was just as kind—full of jokes and tales from his youth. At first, I thought them perfectly lovely.
Then came supper, and everything changed. As we sat at the table, I noticed only a single large pot of stew, a bowl of salad, and one deep plate. Assuming it was for serving, I waited—only to watch Margaret help herself from the pot, take a bite, then pass the plate to Alfred, who did the same. The plate then went to Thomas and, finally, to me. I froze, bewildered. At home, we each had our own dish, and the idea of sharing one was unheard of.
I tried to hide my shock, but Thomas must have noticed. “It’s just how we do things here,” he murmured. How could I not worry? I took a small portion, forcing myself not to think of the plate’s previous users. Margaret, sensing my discomfort, cheerfully explained, “It saves on washing up!” I smiled politely, but my mind reeled. How could anyone live like this?
Later, when it was time to clean, I learned another oddity—they hardly did. Margaret merely rinsed the plate and put it away. The pot and salad bowl got the same treatment. I offered to help, but was told, “Guests don’t scrub dishes.” Kind as it was, I’d have gladly done it myself, just to be sure everything was properly clean.
The next morning brought more strangeness. Alfred fried eggs for breakfast, then tossed the shells into a growing pile of rubbish in the corner—peelings, milk cartons, even used napkins. “We’ll clear it later,” he said, but no one did. Margaret later told me they tidied just once a week, “to save time.” I was aghast. At home, we took out the rubbish daily, and our kitchen always gleamed.
Thomas, seeing my dismay, insisted it was simply their way. “We’re used to it,” he said. But I couldn’t fathom how anyone could call this normal—sharing a plate, living with filth. I bit my tongue, for it was their home, their rules. Yet inside, I screamed, *How can they stand it?*
When I returned home days later, I sighed in relief. I hugged our dishwasher and ate from my own plate with joy. Thomas and I still court, but I vowed never to stay with his parents longer than an afternoon. He took it well, even admitting he sometimes found their habits embarrassing.
The whole ordeal made me realise how differently people live. I’d never call their ways wrong—but they’re not for me. Now, when Thomas and I speak of marriage, I’m clear: we’ll each have our own plate, take out the rubbish daily, and a dishwasher isn’t a luxury—it’s a must. And you know what? He agrees.
