My in-laws invited us over. Seeing their table, I was taken aback to my core.
For three days, I prepared for hosting my in-laws as if it were a crucial exam. I grew up in a village near Norwich, where hospitality wasn’t just a tradition; it was a sacred duty. From a young age, I learned that a guest should leave satisfied and content, even if it meant giving up the last of what you had. Our home was always bursting with food — cold cuts, homemade cheeses, vegetables, appetizers, and pies. It was more than just a treat; it was a sign of respect, warmth, and generosity.
Our daughter Emily got married a few months ago. We had met her in-laws before, but always on neutral ground — at a café or the wedding. They hadn’t visited our cozy apartment on the outskirts of the city yet, and the anticipation made me tremble with nerves. I invited them over for Sunday to help us bond and get to know each other better. My mother-in-law, Helen, eagerly accepted, and I immediately sprang into action: I bought groceries, stocked up on fruits and ice cream, and baked my special cake with cream and nuts. Hospitality is in my blood, and I gave it my all to not disappoint them.
My in-laws turned out to be very cultured people—both university lecturers with an air of manners and intelligence that commanded respect. I feared we’d have nothing to talk about and awkward silences would grow between us, but the evening was surprisingly warm. We chatted about our children’s future, cracked jokes, laughed, and stayed up late. Emily and her husband joined us as it got dark, making the atmosphere even more heartfelt. At the end of the evening, my in-laws invited us over to theirs the following week. I realized they enjoyed our company, and that warmed my heart.
This invitation thrilled me. I even bought a new dress—dark blue, with a neat neckline—to make a good impression. Naturally, I baked another cake—shop-bought ones lack soul. My husband, Peter, grumbled that he wanted to eat before we left, but I asserted, “Helen said she’s preparing for us. She’ll be displeased if you come full! Hold on a bit.” He sighed but complied.
When we arrived at their city apartment, I gasped in delight. The interior looked like it was from a magazine cover: freshly renovated, with expensive furniture and tasteful details. I expected something special and a cozy evening. But when we were led to the living room and I saw their table, my heart stopped in shock. It was… bare. No plates, no napkins, no hint of any treat. “Tea or coffee?” Helen asked with a light smile, as if it were the most natural thing. The only offering was my cake, which she praised and asked for the recipe. Tea with a slice of cake was the entirety of our “feast.”
I looked at this bare table, feeling a knot of resentment and confusion growing inside me. Peter sat beside me, and I could see the hungry disappointment smoldering in his eyes. He was silent, but I knew he was counting the minutes until we could leave. I forced a smile and mentioned it was time to go. We thanked them and said our goodbyes, while the in-laws, unfazed, announced they would visit us again next week. Of course—our table overflows with food, not just a lonely cup of tea!
In the car on the way back, I couldn’t shake the image from my mind. How can you welcome guests like that? I pondered our families and the vast difference in our understanding of hospitality. To me, the table is the heart of the home, a symbol of care, but to them, it seemed just like furniture. Peter remained silent, but I knew he was dreaming of the roasted chicken waiting for us at home. I hadn’t let him eat it that morning, and now he looked out the window with the expression of someone who felt betrayed. I felt deceived too—not by the food, but by the indifference I didn’t expect from those who’d become part of our family.
