My in-laws invited us over, and seeing their table, I was deeply shocked.
For three days, I prepared for hosting my in-laws like it was an important exam. I grew up in a village near Norfolk where hospitality wasn’t just a tradition, it was a sacred duty. Since childhood, I had been taught that a guest should leave well-fed and satisfied, even if it meant giving them your last piece of pie. Our table was always laden with food — meat platters, homemade cheeses, vegetables, snacks, pastries. It was more than just a spread; it was a show of respect, a symbol of warmth and generosity.
Our daughter Mary got married a few months back. We had met the in-laws before, but only in neutral settings — at a café, at the wedding. They hadn’t visited our cozy flat in the outskirts of the city before, and I was a bundle of nerves as I anticipated how everything might go. I suggested that they come by on a Sunday — I wanted us to get closer, to know each other better. My mother-in-law, Margaret, agreed eagerly, and I jumped into action: I stocked up on groceries, fruits, ice cream, and baked my signature cake with cream and nuts. Hospitality runs in my veins, and I gave it my all to make sure they wouldn’t be disappointed.
My in-laws were intelligent people — both university lecturers, their manners and intellect commanded respect. I was worried there might be awkward silences, that we wouldn’t have much to talk about, but the evening turned out to be surprisingly warm. We chatted about our children’s future, joked around, laughed, and stayed up late. Mary and her husband joined us later in the evening, adding to the warmth. By the end, my in-laws invited us to visit them the following week. I realized they enjoyed being at our place, and that warmed my heart.
Their invitation lifted my spirits. I even went and bought a new dark blue dress with a neat neckline to look respectable. Of course, I baked another cake — I don’t fancy store-bought ones; they lack soul. My husband, Peter, grumbled in the morning about wanting to eat before we left, but I insisted, “Margaret’s preparing for us. If you arrive full, she’ll be offended! Be patient.” He sighed but obliged.
When we arrived at their city flat, I was stunned with admiration. The interior looked like it was straight from a magazine: freshly renovated, expensive furniture, elegant details. I was expecting something special, looking forward to a cozy evening. But when we were shown into the living room and I saw their table, my heart sank with shock. It was… empty. No plates, no napkins, not a hint of food. “Tea or coffee?” asked Margaret with a slight smile as if that was the most natural thing. The only treat was my cake, which she praised and asked for the recipe. Tea with a slice of cake — that was our “feast.”
I stared at the bare table, a lump of resentment and confusion growing within me. Peter sat beside me, and I saw the simmering disappointment in his eyes. He was silent, but I knew he was counting the minutes until we could go home. I forced a smile and mentioned that it was time for us to leave. We thanked them and said our goodbyes, while my in-laws, as if nothing was amiss, announced they’d visit us again next week. Of course — our table is always brimming with food, not sitting lonely with a single cup of tea!
In the car, on our way back, I couldn’t shake the image from my mind. How could they welcome guests like that? I thought about our families, the chasm of understanding about hospitality that had opened between us. To me, the table is the heart of the home, a symbol of care, and to them, it seemed it was just furniture. Peter remained silent, but I knew he was dreaming of the roast chicken waiting for us in the fridge. I hadn’t let him eat it in the morning, and now he stared out the window with the look of a man betrayed. I also felt deceived — not by the lack of food, but by the indifference I hadn’t expected from people who were now part of our family.
