**A Dinner Invitation: A Stunning Discovery**
My in-laws invited us over tonight. When I saw their table, I was utterly gobsmacked.
For three days, Id been preparing to host them as if it were some grand test. I grew up in a village near York, where hospitality wasnt just traditionit was sacred duty. From childhood, I was taught that a guest must leave stuffed to bursting, even if it meant giving away your last crust of bread. At home, the table always groaned under the weight of food: cold cuts, artisan cheeses, veg, nibbles, pies. It wasnt just a mealit was respect, warmth, generosity made tangible.
Our daughter Charlotte married a few months ago. Wed met the in-laws before, but only in neutral spotscoffee shops, the wedding. They hadnt yet visited our cosy flat on the outskirts of London, and I was nervous about having them over. I suggested this SundayI wanted us to grow closer. My mother-in-law, Margaret, agreed happily, and I sprang into action: stocked up on groceries, bought fresh fruit, ice cream, and baked my famous walnut cream cake. Hospitalitys in my blood, and I threw myself into it, determined not to disappoint.
They turned out to be lovelyboth university professors, cultured and sharp-witted. Id worried about awkward silences, but the evening was surprisingly warm. We chatted about the childrens future, joked, laughed, stayed up late. Charlotte and her husband joined us later, and the mood grew even cosier. At the end, the in-laws invited us to theirs the following week. I knew wed made a good impressionmy heart glowed.
The invitation thrilled me. I even bought a new dressnavy blue, tasteful necklineto look smart. Naturally, I baked another cake. Shop-bought ones dont move me; they lack soul. My husband, James, grumbled this morning about eating before we left, but I shut him down. *”Margaret said shed handle everything. If you turn up full, shell be offended! Hold out.”* He sighed but obeyed.
When we arrived at their city flat, I was awestruck. The place looked straight out of a magazinerecent renovations, expensive furniture, elegant touches. Id expected something special, braced for a warm evening. But when we were led to the sitting room and I saw their table, my heart stalled. It was bare. No plates, no napkins, not a crumb in sight. *Tea or coffee?* Margaret asked mildly, as if this were perfectly normal. The only offering was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. Tea and a slicethat was our *feast.*
Staring at that naked table, resentment and disbelief swelled inside me. James sat beside me, and I could see the hungry disappointment in his eyes. He stayed quiet, but I knewhe was counting the minutes until we could leave. I forced a smile and said we ought to get going. We thanked them, said our goodbyes, and they casually mentioned theyd pop over next week. *Of course*because at ours, the tables always heaving, never standing empty with just a lonely cuppa!
In the car on the way home, I couldnt shake the image. How could anyone host like that? I thought about our families, the chasm between our ideas of hospitality. To me, a tables the heart of a homeproof of care. To them, apparently, its just furniture. James stayed silent, but I knewhe was dreaming of the roast chicken waiting in our fridge. This morning, I hadnt let him touch it, and now he stared out the window like a man betrayed. And I felt cheated toonot by the lack of food, but by the indifference I hadnt expected from people whod become family.
