Invited by the inlaws: the shock of a stark table
Our inlaws asked us to come over, and when I saw their dining setup I was genuinely stunned.
For three days I prepared for their arrival as if I were studying for a crucial exam. I grew up in a village near Bordeaux where hospitality isnt merely a customits a sacred duty. From childhood I was taught that a guest must leave full and satisfied, even if it means offering the last slice of bread. At home the table was always overflowing: charcuterie, artisanal cheeses, vegetables, amusebouches, pies. A meal wasnt just food; it was a sign of respect, a symbol of warmth and generosity.
Our daughter Camille got married a few months ago. We had already met the parentsinlaw, but only in neutral settingsthe café, the wedding. They had never stepped into our cozy apartment on the outskirts of Paris, and I felt anxious about hosting them. I suggested they come on Sunday, hoping to bring us 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 veins, and I poured my heart into making sure I wouldnt disappoint.
Both inlaws turned out to be highly educated university professors, exuding a dignified presence and intelligence that demand 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, adding even more warmth to the atmosphere. At the nights end the inlaws invited us to their home the following week. I sensed they had enjoyed the visit, and that thought warmed my heart.
The invitation filled me with joy. I even bought a new navyblue dress with a modest neckline so I could look presentable. Of course I baked another cakestorebought ones never appeal to me, they lack soul. My husband, Pierre, grumbled this morning about eating 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 complied.
When we reached their city apartment, I was amazed. The interior looked like a glossy magazine spread: fresh renovations, expensive furnishings, elegant details. I expected a special setting and a convivial evening. Yet as we were led to the living room and I laid eyes on their table, my heart stopped in disbelief. It was bare. No plates, no napkins, not a single hint of a snack. Tea or coffee? Élodie asked with a faint smile, as if it were obvious. The only thing on offer was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. A cup of tea with a slice of cakethat was their feast.
Staring at that strippeddown table, a knot of resentment and incomprehension grew inside me. Pierre sat beside me, his eyes reflecting a hungry disappointment. He remained silent, but I could tell he was counting the minutes until we could return home. I forced a smile and said it was time to leave. We thanked them, took our leave, 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 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, I couldnt shake the image. 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; 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 someone betrayed. I felt deceivednot by a lack of food, but by the indifference I never expected from people who had become part of our family.
