My in-laws invited us over, and I was taken aback by the sight of their table.
For three days, I prepared for the visit from my in-laws as if I were about to take an important exam. I grew up in a village near York, where hospitality was not just a tradition but a sacred duty. From a young age, I was taught that a guest should leave satisfied and happy, even if it meant giving up your own share. Our table was always overflowing with food—meat platters, homemade cheeses, vegetables, appetizers, and pies. It was more than a meal; it was a sign of respect, warmth, and generosity.
Our daughter, Molly, got married several months ago. We’d met the in-laws a few times before, but only in neutral settings like a café or the wedding. They’d never been to our cozy home on the edge of town, and I was a bundle of nerves about how it would all go. I suggested they come over on Sunday because I wanted us to get closer and know each other better. Mary, my mother-in-law, readily agreed, and I immediately threw myself into preparations: shopping for groceries, stocking up on fruits and ice cream, baking my signature cake with cream and nuts. Hospitality is in my blood, and I went all out to avoid disappointing them.
The in-laws turned out to be cultured people—both university lecturers with manners and intelligence that instantly commanded respect. I feared we might have nothing to talk about and that an awkward silence would build between us, but surprisingly, the evening was quite warm. We chatted about our children’s futures, joked, laughed, and stayed late into the night. Molly and her husband joined us later in the evening, adding even more warmth to the atmosphere. By the end, my in-laws invited us to their place next week. I realized they had enjoyed being with us, and that made my heart swell with happiness.
The invitation thrilled me. I even bought a new dress—dark blue with a neat neckline—so I’d look respectable. Of course, I baked a cake again—shop-bought ones don’t appeal to me; they lack heart. My husband, Peter, grumbled that he wanted to eat before we left, but I insisted, “Mary said she’s expecting us and has prepared. If you come full, she’ll be offended! Be patient.” He sighed but complied.
When we arrived at their city flat, I was awestruck. The place looked like something out of a magazine: fresh decor, expensive furniture, elegant details. I expected something special, anticipating a cozy evening. But when we were led into the living room and I saw their table, my heart skipped a beat in shock. It was… bare. No plates, no napkins, not a hint of treats. “Tea or coffee?” Mary asked with a light smile, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The only offering was my cake, which she praised and asked for the recipe. Tea with a slice of cake—our entire “feast.”
I looked at the bare table and felt a lump of resentment and confusion growing inside me. Peter sat beside me, and I could see the hungry disappointment simmering in his eyes. He was silent, but I knew he was counting down the minutes until we could return home. I forced a smile and mentioned that it was time for us to leave. We thanked them and said our goodbyes, and my in-laws nonchalantly announced they’d visit us again the following week. Of course, they would—our table was always overflowing with food, not standing 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 anyone welcome guests like that? I thought about the difference in our families and the chasm in our understanding of hospitality. To me, the table is the heart of the home, a symbol of care, while to them, apparently, it’s just furniture. Peter stayed quiet, but I knew he was dreaming of the roast chicken waiting in our fridge. I hadn’t let him eat it earlier that day, and now he stared out the window like someone who’d been let down. I, too, felt deceived—by the indifference rather than the lack of food I hadn’t expected from those who’d become part of our family.
