Invited by the inlaws: the discovery of a dazzlingly bare table
Our inlaws asked to come over, and when I saw their table I was genuinely stunned.
For three days I prepared to host them as if I were taking a crucial exam. 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 full and satisfied, even if that means offering the last slice of bread. At home the table was always overflowing with foodcured meats, artisanal cheeses, vegetables, appetizers, 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 settingsthe café and at the wedding. They had never seen our cosy flat on the outskirts of Paris, and I felt nervous about welcoming them. I suggested they come on Sunday so we could 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, ice cream, and baked my famed 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 presence and intelligence that command respect. I feared awkward silences, yet 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 our meeting, and that warmed my heart.
The invitation filled me with joy. I even bought a new navyblue dress with a modest neckline to look elegant. Of course I baked another cakestorebought ones never move me; they lack soul. 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 show up 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 touches. I expected a special setting and a convivial evening. Yet, as we were led into the living room and I saw their table, my heart stopped in astonishment. It was empty. No plates, no napkins, no trace of a snack. Tea or coffee? Élodie asked with a faint smile, as if that were obvious. The only thing on the table 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 bare table, a knot of resentment and incomprehension grew inside me. Pierre sat beside me, his eyes reflecting hungry disappointment. 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 casually announced they would come to our place the next week. Of courseat our home the table is always laden with food; it never sits there alone with a solitary cup of tea!
In the car on the way back, I couldnt shake the scene. How could they welcome us like that? 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 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 the lack of food, but by the indifference I never expected from people who had become part of our family.
