Invited by the inlaws: the unveiling of a startlingly bare table
Our inlaws asked to come over. When I saw their dining spread, I was utterly astonished.
For three days I prepared for their visit as if I were facing a crucial exam. I grew up in a village near Bordeaux, where hospitality is not merely a custom but a sacred duty. From childhood I was taught that a guest must leave full and satisfied, even if it means handing over the last slice of bread. In our home the table was always overflowing with farecured meats, artisanal cheeses, vegetables, appetizers, pies. It was more than a meal; it was a sign of respect, a symbol of warmth and generosity.
Our daughter Camille wed a few months ago. We had already met the inlaws, but only in neutral settingsthe café, the wedding. They had never stepped into our snug apartment on the outskirts of Paris, and the thought of hosting them made me nervous. I suggested they come this SundayI wanted us to grow closer and get to know each other better. My motherinlaw, Élodie, accepted enthusiastically, and I immediately set to work: I stocked up, bought fruit and ice cream, and baked my famous creamandnut cake. Hospitality runs in my blood, and I threw myself into the preparations so as not to disappoint them.
The inlaws turned out to be highly culturedboth university professors, possessing a poise and intellect that command respect. I feared awkward silences, but the evening proved surprisingly pleasant. We discussed our childrens futures, joked, laughed, and stayed up late. Camille and her husband joined us later, making the atmosphere even cozier. At the end, the inlaws invited us to their place the following week. I sensed they had enjoyed the meeting, and that warmed my heart.
The invitation filled me with joy. I even bought a new dressnavy, with a modest necklineto look my best. Of course I baked another cakestorebought ones never move me; they lack soul. My husband, Pierre, was grumbling this morning about wanting to eat before we left, but I cut him off: Élodie said shed take care of our visit. If you arrive with a full stomach shell be offended! Hold on. He sighed but obeyed.
When we entered their city apartment, I was dazzled. The interior looked like a magazine spreadfresh renovations, expensive furniture, elegant details. I expected something special, a convivial evening. Yet when we were led to the living room and I saw their table, my heart stopped in disbelief. It was empty. No plates, no napkins, not a trace of a snack. Tea or coffee? Élodie asked with a faint smile, as if the answer were obvious. The only thing we had was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. A cup of tea with a slice of cakethat was our feast.
Staring at that strippeddown table, a knot of resentment and confusion grew inside me. Pierre sat beside me, and I could read a hungry disappointment in his eyes. He remained silent, but I knew he was counting the minutes until we could return home. I forced a smile and said it was time for us to leave. We thanked them, said goodbye, and the inlaws announced, as if nothing unusual had happened, that they would come to our house the next week. Of courseat our place the table is always piled high with food, never left alone with a solitary cup of tea!
In the car on the way back, I couldnt shake the scene. How could someone host like that? I thought of our families, of the gulf that had opened in our understanding of hospitality. To me, a table is the heart of a home, a symbol of care; to them, apparently, it was just a piece of furniture. Pierre stayed quiet, but I knew he was dreaming of the roast chicken waiting in our fridge. This morning I hadnt let him eat it, and now he stared out the window with the look of a betrayed person. I felt deceivednot by a lack of food, but by the indifference I never expected from people who had become part of our family.
Guests of the In-Laws: Unveiling a Dazzling Feast
