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 had prepared to host them as though for an important examination. I grew up in a village near York, where hospitality wasnt merely traditionit was sacred duty. From childhood, I was taught that a guest must leave well-fed and content, even if it meant giving away the last slice of bread. At home, our table always overflowed: cold cuts, artisanal cheeses, fresh vegetables, nibbles, and pies. It was never just a mealit was respect, warmth, and generosity made manifest.
Our daughter, Alice, had married a few months prior. Wed met the in-laws before, but only in neutral placesa tea room, the wedding. They hadnt yet visited our cosy flat on the outskirts of London, and I was nervous to welcome them. I suggested they come that Sunday, hoping we might grow closer. My mother-in-law, Margaret, agreed eagerly, and I threw myself into preparations: stocking up on fruit, ice cream, and baking my famous walnut cream cake. Hospitality runs in my blood, and I spared no effort to impress.
The in-laws were refined peopleboth university professors, dignified and sharp-witted. Id feared awkward silence, but the evening was surprisingly pleasant. We spoke of the childrens future, joked, laughed, and lingered late. Alice and her husband joined us, and the room grew even warmer. Before leaving, the in-laws invited us to their home the following week. Their enjoyment of the evening heartened me.
The invitation filled me with joy. I even bought a new dressnavy blue, modestly cut, to look my best. Naturally, I baked another cake; shop-bought ones leave me coldthey lack soul. My husband, John, grumbled that morning about eating before we left, but I cut him short: Margaret said shed take care of everything. If you arrive full, shed be hurt! Hold out. He sighed but obeyed.
When we entered their city flat, I marvelled. The interior looked like a magazine spreadrecent renovations, fine furniture, elegant touches. I expected something special, anticipating a cosy evening. But when we were led to the parlour and I saw their table, my heart stilled in shock. It was bare. No plates, no napkins, not a crumb of refreshment. Tea or coffee? Margaret asked lightly, as if it were obvious. The only offering was my cake, which she praised before requesting the recipe. Tea and a slicethat was our feast.
Staring at that empty table, resentment and confusion swelled in me. John sat beside me, and I saw hungry disappointment in his eyes. Silent, but I knewhe was counting minutes until we could leave. I forced a smile and said it was time to go. We thanked them, and as if nothing were amiss, they announced theyd visit us next week. Of coursein our home, the table groans with food. It doesnt stand lonely, bearing nothing but a solitary cup!
On the drive back, I couldnt forget it. 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 care. To them, seemingly, just furniture. John stayed quiet, but I knewhe was dreaming of the roast chicken waiting in our fridge. That morning, I hadnt let him eat it, and now he gazed out the window like a wronged man. And I felt cheated, toonot by the lack of food, but by the indifference Id never expected from those now bound to us as family.
