Our in-laws invited us over. When I saw their table, I was taken aback.
I prepared for our in-laws’ visit as if I were preparing for an important exam. Growing up in a village near Bath, hospitality was not just a tradition but a sacred duty. From a young age, I was taught that a guest should leave well-fed and happy, even if it meant giving up the last slice. Our table was always laden with food—meat platters, homemade cheeses, vegetables, snacks, pies. It wasn’t just about feeding people, but showing respect, warmth, and generosity.
Our daughter Lucy got married several months ago. We’d met her in-laws before, but only on neutral ground—at a café, at the wedding. They hadn’t been to our cozy flat on the outskirts of town, and I was a bundle of nerves about how it would go. I invited them for Sunday, hoping it would bring us closer, allowing us to get to know each other better. My mother-in-law, Helen, readily agreed, and I jumped into action: stocked up on food, got fruits, ice cream, and baked my signature cream and nut cake. Hospitality runs in my veins, and I gave it my all to impress them.
The in-laws turned out to be well-educated people—both university lecturers with manners and intellect that commanded respect. I was afraid we’d have nothing to talk about, that a wall of awkward silence would grow between us, but the evening was surprisingly warm. We chatted about our children’s future, joked, laughed, and stayed up late. Lucy and her husband joined us as the evening approached, making the atmosphere even more heartfelt. At the end, the in-laws invited us over for a visit the following week. I understood they enjoyed our place, and that warmed my heart.
The invitation lifted my spirits. I even bought a new navy dress with a neat neckline to look presentable. Of course, I baked another cake—I find store-bought ones lack heart. My husband, Peter, grumbled in the morning about wanting to eat before we left, but I insisted: “Helen said she was preparing for us. She’ll be upset if you come full! Hold on.” He sighed but agreed.
When we arrived at their city apartment, I was awestruck. The interior looked like something out of a magazine: fresh decor, expensive furniture, elegant touches. I expected something special and was looking forward to a cozy evening. But when we were shown into the living room and I saw their table, my heart stopped in shock. It was… bare. No plates, no napkins, no sign of refreshment. “Tea or coffee?” Helen asked with a slight smile as if it were 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 entire “feast.”
I looked at the empty table and felt a mix of hurt and confusion growing inside me. Peter sat beside me, and I saw the hungry disappointment smoldering in his eyes. He kept quiet, but I knew he was counting the minutes until we got back home. I forced a smile as I said it was time for us to leave. We thanked them, said our goodbyes, and the in-laws, as if nothing had happened, announced that they’d visit us again next week. Of course they would—our table always groaned under the weight of food, not sitting lonely with just a cup of tea!
In the car, as we drove back, I couldn’t shake the thought of that scene. How could someone welcome guests like that? I thought about our families and the chasm in our understanding of hospitality that gaped between us. For me, the table is the heart of the home, a symbol of care, while for them, it seemed like just furniture. Peter stayed 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 gazed out the window like a man betrayed. And I felt deceived—not by the lack of food, but by the indifference I hadn’t expected from those who had become part of our family.
