My in-laws invited us over, and I was taken aback by their table setting.
For three days, I prepared for our in-laws’ visit as if it were a crucial exam. Growing up in a village outside of Cambridge, hospitality wasn’t just a tradition, but a sacred duty. From a young age, I learned that guests should leave satisfied, even if it meant giving up the last of what we had. Our home was always filled with food — cold cuts, homemade cheeses, veggies, snacks, and pies. This wasn’t simply a feast, but a sign of respect and warmth.
Our daughter Emily got married a few months ago. We had met her in-laws before, but only on neutral ground — at cafes, during the wedding. They hadn’t visited our cozy home on the outskirts of London, and I was trembling with nerves at the thought of hosting them. I proposed they come over on Sunday, wanting us to grow closer and learn more about one another. Emily’s mother-in-law, Margaret, readily agreed. I jumped into action, buying groceries, stocking up on fruits and ice cream, and baking my signature cream and nut cake. Hospitality runs in my veins, and I spared no effort to ensure they wouldn’t be disappointed.
My in-laws were refined individuals — both were university lecturers, exuding manners and intelligence that demanded respect. I feared awkward silences might grow between us, but surprisingly, the evening was filled with warmth. We chatted about our children’s futures, joked, laughed, and stayed up late. Emily and her husband joined us later, making the atmosphere even more cordial. By the end, my in-laws invited us to theirs the following week. It was clear they enjoyed themselves at our place, warming my heart.
Their invitation boosted my spirits. I even bought a new dress — navy blue with a modest neckline, to look respectable. Of course, I baked another cake — shop-bought ones lack soul. My husband, Peter, grumbled that morning about wanting to eat before we left, but I cut him off, “Margaret said she’s preparing for us. Arriving with a full stomach would be an insult. Hold on a bit.” He sighed, but relented.
Upon arriving at their city apartment, I was taken aback. The interior looked like it was from a magazine cover: fresh decor, expensive furniture, elegant touches. I expected something special for the evening. But when we were shown to the living room and I saw their table, my heart sank in shock. It was… bare. No plates, no napkins, no hint of food. “Tea or coffee?” Margaret asked with a slight smile, as if it was the most natural thing. The only treat was my cake, which she praised and asked for the recipe. Tea with a piece of cake — that was our entire “feast.”
I stared at the barren table, feeling a knot of resentment and bewilderment grow inside. Peter sat beside me, and I could see the hunger-fueled disappointment in his eyes. He was silent, but I knew he was counting the minutes until we got home. I forced a smile and said it was time to leave. We thanked them, said our goodbyes, and they casually announced their visit to us the following week. Of course — in our home, the table is always abundantly laid out, not left with just a lonely cup of tea!
On the drive back, I couldn’t shake off the scene. How could one host guests like that? I thought about our families, about 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 a piece of furniture. Peter remained silent, but I knew he was thinking about the roast chicken waiting for us in the fridge. I hadn’t let him eat it in the morning, and now he gazed out the window with the look of someone who felt betrayed. I felt deceived too — not by the food, but by the indifference I hadn’t expected from people who had become part of our family.
