Invited by the in-laws: a dazzling table revealed
My in-laws invited us to their home. When I saw their table, I was utterly stunned.
For three days, I prepared to host them as if sitting an important exam. I grew up in a village near York, where hospitality wasnt just traditionit was sacred duty. From childhood, I was taught a guest must leave well-fed, even if it meant giving away the last slice of bread. Our table always overflowed: cold cuts, artisan cheeses, roasted vegetables, finger foods, pies. It wasnt just a mealit was respect, warmth, and generosity made tangible.
Our daughter Emily married a few months ago. Wed met the in-laws before, but only in neutral placescafés, the wedding. They hadnt yet visited our cosy flat on the outskirts of London, and I was nervous. I suggested they come this Sundayhoping wed grow closer. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, agreed eagerly, and I sprang into action: stocking up on fruit, ice cream, baking my famous walnut cream cake. Hospitality runs in my blood, and I poured my heart into not disappointing them.
The in-laws were culturedboth university professors, dignified and sharp-witted. I feared awkward silence, but the evening was surprisingly pleasant. We spoke of our childrens future, joked, laughed late into the night. Emily and her husband joined us, and the air grew warmer still. As they left, the in-laws invited us to theirs the following week. Their enjoyment of the evening warmed my heart.
The invitation thrilled me. I even bought a new dressnavy blue, subtly elegantto look my best. Naturally, I baked another cake (shop-bought ones lack soul). My husband, James, grumbled about eating before we left, but I cut him off: “Eleanors handling everything. If you arrive full, shell be hurt! Hold on.” He sighed but obeyed.
When we reached their city flat, I marvelled. The interior belonged in a magazine: sleek renovations, expensive furniture, refined details. I anticipated a cosy eveninguntil we entered the dining room. My heart froze. The table was bare. No plates, no napkins, not a crumb of food. “Tea or coffee?” Eleanor asked, smiling as if this were normal. The only offering was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. Tea and a sliceour “feast.”
Staring at that empty table, resentment swelled. James sat beside me, hunger and disappointment plain in his eyes. Silent, but I knewhe was counting minutes until we could leave. I forced a smile, said we ought to go. We thanked them, and as if nothing were amiss, they announced theyd visit us next week. Of courseour table groans with food, never standing lonely with just a teacup!
In the car, the scene haunted me. How could anyone host like this? I thought of our families, the chasm between our ideas of hospitality. To me, a table is a homes heart, a symbol of careto them, just furniture. James stayed quiet, but I knew: he dreamed of the roast chicken waiting in our fridge. This morning, Id stopped him eating it; now he gazed out the window like a betrayed man. And I felt cheated toonot by the lack of food, but by the indifference I never expected from family.
