**Lazy or Misunderstood? When a Motherinlaws Visit Becomes an Emotional Nightmare**
Youre so lazy! Is this how you treat guests? my motherinlaws stay turned into a painful ordeal.
Since I was a child I remembered one simple rule: an invited guest must be welcomed with respect and warmth. My mother loved to cook, and every visit from friends or relatives felt like a celebration. My sister helped in the kitchen, my father took care of the cleaningeverything was done together, with affection. That gentle atmosphere, filled with fragrant aromas and echoing laughter, marked my upbringing. I already imagined recreating that vibe in my own home once I grew up. Yet life sometimes writes different scripts.
When I married Damien we decided to open our house to both our families. I embraced the idea happily because it reminded me of my childhood home. Soon our place became a hub of warm gatherings, endless conversations, and friendly evenings. Then, one day, she arrived: Damiens mother. A lively, strict woman with a strong temperament. She seemed pleasant and welcoming at first, but beneath the charm lay a sharp sarcasm that was hard to bear.
At first I tried to please her at every turn. During her visits I scrubbed until everything sparkled, prepared elaborate dishes, and hoped to impress. Yet she appeared ready to criticize from the start. On her first appearance, after a quick glance at the table, she snapped:
Is that all you could manage? No imagination at all. Id have been better off eating at my own place.
My heart tightened; I had poured love into that dinner. I said nothingmy upbringing stopped me from replying. I vowed to work even harder next time. Then Damiens birthday came. I spent hours searching for refined recipes, aiming to serve an exceptional meal. The table was piled with food. I finally hoped for a kind word.
But as she entered the kitchen her expression hardened. She didnt even sit down. She inspected each plate, sniffed, and then declared:
Good heavens, are you joking? You call this a celebration meal? Everything is too salty, the tart is dry, the salads are flavorless. Do you even know how to cook?
I couldnt hold it together. I fled to the bedroom, crying silently into my pillow. My mothers words echoed: Youre a true homemaker; youll get through this. Yesexcept in front of my motherinlaw. She kept going:
Ill teach you how to cook. Come to my house and youll see what a real table looks like. This is disgraceful. Damien really got the short end of the stick with you.
I wanted to scream, to unload everything: how exhausting it was to organize each gathering, how I tried to be a good wife without complaining, without blaming Damien for his lack of help, even though I was drained. But I stayed silent. Damien he kept quiet as if it didnt involve him. Only after the guests left did he approach and whisper:
Im sorry. I wont invite her again. Shes crossed the line.
I nodded, wordless. What hurt me most werent my motherinlaws critiquesI eventually got used to them. It was my husbands silence, his indifference, as if my efforts were invisible and meaningless. I realized then that it isnt the food or the perfect table that matters. What truly counts is having someone beside you who supports you, even if all you serve is buttered pasta.
