**Invited by the In-Laws: The Discovery of a Dazzling Table**
My in-laws invited us over. When I saw their table, I was utterly stunned.
For three days, I had prepared to host them as if sitting an exam. I grew up in a village near Oxford, where hospitality wasnt just traditionit was sacred duty. Since childhood, Id been taught that a guest must leave well-fed, even if it meant parting with the last slice of bread. At home, the table always groaned under platters of roast beef, artisan cheeses, fresh vegetables, finger sandwiches, and pies. It wasnt just a mealit was respect, warmth, generosity itself.
Our daughter, Alice, married a few months ago. Wed met her in-laws beforein cafés, at the weddingbut theyd never visited our cosy flat on the outskirts of London. Nervous, I suggested Sunday lunch, hoping to grow closer. My mother-in-law, Margaret, agreed eagerly, and I threw myself into preparations: stocking up on fruit, ice cream, baking my famous walnut sponge. Hospitality runs in my bloodI wanted everything perfect.
The in-laws were refinedboth university professors, dignified, sharp-witted. Id feared awkward silences, but the evening was surprisingly warm. We spoke of the childrens future, laughed, lingered over tea. Alice and her husband joined us later, filling the room with chatter. By the end, they invited us to theirs the following week. Their enjoyment warmed me.
The invitation thrilled me. I even bought a new dressnavy blue, modestly cutand baked another cake (shop-bought lacks soul). My husband, James, grumbled about leaving hungry, but I chided, *”Margaret said shed handle lunch. If you arrive full, shell be hurt! Hold out.”* He sighed but obeyed.
Their city flat took my breath awayrecently renovated, all sleek furniture and tasteful details. I envisioned a lavish spread. But when we reached the lounge, my heart sank. The table was bare. No plates, no napkins, not a crumb. *”Tea or coffee?”* Margaret asked mildly, as if this were obvious. The only offering was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. Tea and a sliver of spongethat was our “feast.”
Staring at that empty table, resentment coiled inside me. James sat silently, but his eyes betrayed hunger. I forced a smile, announced our departure. As we left, they casually mentioned visiting *us* next week. Of courseour table would groan as usual, not sit barren with a lonely teacup!
In the car, I couldnt shake the scene. *How could they host like this?* To me, a table is a homes hearta gesture of care. To them, just furniture. James stayed quiet, but I knewhe was dreaming of the roast chicken waiting in our fridge. This morning, Id denied him; 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 hadnt expected from family.
