Lazy or misunderstood? When a motherinlaws visit turns into an emotional nightmare
Youre so lazy! Is this how you welcome guests? my motherinlaws stay became a torment of feelings.
Since I was little I remembered a simple rule: a guest must be welcomed with respect and warmth. My mother loved to cook, and every visit from friends or family turned into a celebration. My sister and I helped in the kitchen, my father took care of the cleaning everything was done together, with affection. That atmosphere of softness, delicious aromas and ringing laughter defined my childhood. I already imagined recreating that ambience in my own home as an adult. But life sometimes writes different scripts.
When I married Damien we decided to host both our families. I welcomed the idea gladly, because it reminded me of my childhood house. Our home quickly became a hub of warm gatherings, endless conversations and convivial evenings. Then one day she arrived Damiens mother. An energetic, strict woman with a strong personality. She appeared kind and welcoming, yet beneath the charm lay a biting sarcasm that was hard to swallow.
At first I tried to please her at every turn. During her visits I cleaned until everything sparkled, I prepared elaborate dishes, I wanted to impress. But my motherinlaw seemed determined to find fault from the start. At her first coming, after a quick glance at the table, she snapped:
Is this all you could manage? Such a lack of imagination. Id have been better off eating at home.
My heart tightened; I had poured all my love into that dinner. I said nothing my upbringing stopped me from retorting. I promised myself to try even harder next time. Then Damiens birthday came. I spent hours searching refined recipes, aiming to serve an exceptional meal. The table was piled with food. I finally hoped for a kind word.
But the moment she stepped into the kitchen her face hardened. She didnt even sit down. She inspected every plate, sniffed, then declared:
Good heavens, are you joking? You call this a feast? Everything is too salty, the pie is dry, the salads are flavorless. Do you even know how to cook?
I couldnt hold it together. I fled to the bedroom, weeping silently into my pillow. My mothers words echoed: Youre a true homemaker, youll get through this. Yes, except in front of my motherinlaw. She continued:
Ill teach you to cook. Come to my house and youll see what a real table looks like. This is disgraceful. Damien is truly unlucky with you.
I wanted to answer, to unload everything tell her how draining each reception was, how I tried to be a good wife without complaining, without blaming my husband for his lack of help, even though I was exhausted. But I stayed silent. And Damien he kept quiet, as if it didnt involve him. Only after the guests left did he come over and whisper:
Im sorry. I wont invite her again. Shes gone too far.
I nodded, speechless. What hurt me most werent my motherinlaws critiques after a while I got used to them. It was my husbands silence, his indifference, as if my efforts were invisible, insignificant. I then realized: it isnt the food or the perfect setting that matters. Its having someone by your side who supports you, even if all you serve is buttered pasta.
