Invited by the inlaws: the unveiling of a dazzling table
Our inlaws asked to come over to our place. When I saw the table they had set, I was utterly stunned.
For three days I prepared as if I were taking a crucial exam. I grew up in a village near Bordeaux, where hospitality isnt merely a custom but a sacred duty. Since childhood I was taught that a guest must leave full and content, even if it means offering the last slice of bread. At home the table was always overflowingcharcuterie, artisanal cheeses, vegetables, amusebouches, pies. It wasnt just a meal; 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 inlaws, but only in neutral settingsat a café, during the wedding. They had never visited our cozy flat on the outskirts of Paris, and the thought of hosting them made me nervous. I suggested they come on Sunday, hoping we could grow closer and get to know each other better. My motherinlaw, Élodie, accepted eagerly, and I immediately set to work: stocked up, bought fruit and ice cream, and baked my famous creamandnut cake. Hospitality runs in my veins, and I devoted myself fully to avoid disappointing 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 later, making the atmosphere even friendlier. At the close, the inlaws invited us to their home the following week. I sensed they had enjoyed our meeting, and that warmed my heart.
The invitation filled me with joy. I even bought a new dressnavy blue with a modest necklineto look my best. Of course I baked another cake; storebought ones feel soulless to me. My husband Pierre complained this morning about having 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 arrived at their city apartment, I was dazzled. The interior looked like a magazine spreadfresh renovations, expensive furnishings, elegant details. I expected a special setting, a convivial evening. Yet as we were led to the living room and I caught sight of their table, my heart froze in astonishment. It was empty. No plates, no napkins, no hint of a snack. Tea or coffee? Élodie asked with a faint smile, as if it were obvious. The only thing we could offer was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. A cup of tea with a slice of cakethat was our feast.
Viewing that bare table, a knot of resentment and confusion grew 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 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; it never sits there alone with a solitary cup of tea!
On the drive back, the scene replayed in my mind. How could they host in such a manner? I thought of our families and 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 is merely 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 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.
