Invited by the in-laws: the shock of an empty table
My in-laws invited us over to theirs. When I saw their table, I was absolutely gobsmacked.
For three days, Id been prepping to host my in-laws like it was some sort of life test. I grew up in a village near York, where hospitality wasnt just traditionit was sacred. My parents drilled it into me: a guest should never leave hungry, even if it meant giving up your last bite. Back home, the table was always piled highpies, cheeses, cold meats, pickles, bread, puddings. It wasnt just food; it was respect, warmth, love on a plate.
Our daughter, Alice, got married a few months back. Wed met the in-laws before, but only in neutral spotsthe pub, the wedding. Theyd never been to our little semi in Greater London, and I was proper nervous about having them over. So I suggested this Sundayfigured it was time to get cosy, properly know each other. My mother-in-law, Margaret, said yes straight off, and I threw myself into it: stocked up on biscuits, fresh fruit, ice cream, and baked my famous walnut and cream cake. Hospitalitys in my bloodI wasnt about to let them down.
Turns out, the in-laws were sharp as tacksboth university lecturers, the sort who make you sit up straighter just by talking. Id worried itd be awkward, but the evening was lovely. We chatted about the kids future, cracked jokes, laughed till it got late. Alice and her husband popped by after, and it got even cosier. By the end, the in-laws invited us to theirs next week. I knew wed made a good impressionproper chuffed, I was.
The invite had me over the moon. I even bought a new dressnavy blue, modest neckline, wanted to look smart. Course, I baked another cakeshop-bought ones taste like cardboard, no heart in em. My husband, James, moaned all morning about eating before we left, but I shut that down: “Margaret said shes sorting lunch. If you turn up full, shell take it personal! Hold out.” He sighed but caved.
When we got to their flat in the city, I was dazzled. The place looked like something off a telly showfresh paint, posh furniture, everything just so. I expected something special, a proper spread. But when we walked into the lounge and I saw their table, my heart sank. It was bare. No plates, no napkins, not even a biscuit in sight. “Tea or coffee?” Margaret asked, smiling like it was the most normal thing. The only thing there was *my* cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. A cuppa and a slicethat was our “feast.”
Staring at that empty table, I felt this knot of disbelief tighten in my chest. James sat next to me, and I could see the hungry disappointment in his eyes. He stayed quiet, but I knewhe was counting the minutes till we could leg it home. I forced a smile, said we ought to head off soon. We thanked them, said our goodbyes, and the in-laws casually mentioned theyd pop round ours next week. *Course they would*our places got food enough to sink a ship, not just a lonely mug of tea!
In the car on the way back, I couldnt shake it. How dyou host like *that*? I kept thinking about our families, this massive gap in what we think hospitality means. To me, a tables the heart of a homecare, love, all of it. To them? Just a bit of furniture. James stayed silent, but I knewhe was fantasising about the roast chicken waiting in our fridge. Id stopped him eating it that morning, and now he stared out the window like a wronged man. And me? I felt cheatednot by the lack of food, but by the coldness I never saw coming from people whore now family.
