Invited by the inlaws: the shock of a dazzlingly empty table
Our inlaws asked to come over. When I saw their dining spread, I was utterly stunned.
For three days I prepared as if I were taking a crucial exam, getting ready to host them. I grew up in a village near Bordeaux where hospitality isnt just a custom but a sacred duty. From childhood I was taught that a guest must leave fully satisfied, even if it means handing over the last slice of bread. At home our table was always overflowing with charcuterie, artisanal cheeses, vegetables, amusebouches, and pies. It wasnt merely a meal; it was a sign of respect, a symbol of warmth and generosity.
Our daughter Camille married a few months ago. We had already met the inlaws, but only in neutral settingsat a café and at the wedding. They had never stepped inside our modest apartment on the outskirts of Paris, and I felt nervous about welcoming them. I suggested they come on Sunday, hoping we could grow closer and get to know each other better. My motherinlaw, Élodie, accepted enthusiastically, and I immediately set about the preparations: bought fruit, ice cream, and baked my celebrated creamandnut cake. Hospitality runs in my veins, and I poured my heart into making sure I wouldnt disappoint them.
The inlaws turned out to be highly educatedboth university professors, exuding a poise and intellect that command respect. I feared awkward silences, but the evening turned out surprisingly pleasant. We talked about our childrens futures, joked, laughed, and stayed up late. Camille and her husband joined us later, and the atmosphere grew even cozier. At the nights end the inlaws invited us to their place the following week. I sensed they had enjoyed our meeting, and that warmed my heart.
Their invitation filled me with joy. I even bought a new navyblue dress with a modest neckline so I could look my best. Of course I baked another cakestorebought ones never move me; they lack soul. My husband Pierre complained this morning that he wanted 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 upset! Hold on. He sighed but obeyed.
When we arrived at their city apartment, I was dazzled. The interior looked like a magazine spreadfresh renovations, expensive furniture, elegant details. I expected a special setting, a convivial evening. Yet when we were led into the living room and I saw their table, my heart stopped in amazement. It was bare. No plates, no napkins, not a crumb of food. Tea or coffee? Élodie asked with a faint smile, as if the choice were obvious. The only thing on offer was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. A cup of tea paired with a slice of cakethat was our feast.
Staring at that strippeddown table, a knot of resentment and incomprehension formed inside me. Pierre sat beside me, his eyes showing a hungry disappointment. He stayed silent, but I knew he was counting the minutes until we could return home. I forced a smile and said it was time to leave. We thanked them, said our goodbyes, and the inlaws nonchalantly announced they would come to our house the next week. Of courseat our place the table always groans under a mountain of food; it never sits there alone with a solitary cup of tea!
In the car on the way back, the scene replayed in my mind. How could anyone receive guests like that? I thought of our families and the chasm that had opened in our understanding of hospitality. To me, a table is the heart of a home, a symbol of care; for them, apparently, it was just a piece of furniture. Pierre remained 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 cheatednot by the lack of food, but by the indifference I never expected from people who had become part of our family.
Hosted by the In-Laws: Unveiling a Dazzling Dinner Table
