Invited by the inlaws: the shock of a bare table
Our parentsinlaw asked us to come over to their place. When I laid eyes on their dining table, I was utterly stunned.
For three days I rehearsed my welcome as if I were preparing for a crucial exam. I grew up in a small village near Bordeaux, where hospitality isnt merely a custom but a sacred duty. From childhood I was taught that a guest must leave satiated and content, even if it means offering the last slice of bread. At home the table was always overflowingwith charcuterie, artisanal cheeses, vegetables, appetizers, pies. It wasnt just a meal; it was a sign of respect, a symbol of warmth and generosity.
Our daughter Camille had been married a few months earlier. We had already met the inlaws, but only in neutral settingsa café, the wedding itself. They had never stepped into our cozy flat on the outskirts of Paris, and I felt anxious about hosting them. I suggested they come on Sunday, hoping the visit would bring us closer and help us get to know each other better. My motherinlaw, Élodie, accepted cheerfully, and I immediately set about the preparations: stocked up on provisions, bought fruit and ice cream, and baked my renowned creamandnut cake. Hospitality flows in my veins, and I poured my heart into making sure we wouldnt disappoint.
Both of them turned out to be highly educateduniversity professors with a poise and intellect that command respect. I feared an awkward silence might settle over us, yet the evening turned out 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 nights end the inlaws invited us to their home the following week. I sensed they had enjoyed the encounter, and that thought 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 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. Shed be offended if you arrived with a full stomach! Hold on. He sighed, then obeyed.
When we arrived at their city apartment, I was dazzled. The interior looked straight out of a magazinefresh renovations, expensive furniture, elegant details. I expected a special setting and a convivial evening. Yet when we were led into the living room and I saw their table, my heart stopped in disbelief. It was empty. 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 we had 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 bare table I felt a surge of resentment and confusion. Pierre sat beside me, his eyes showing a hungry disappointment. He remained quiet, 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 they nonchalantly announced they would come to our place the next week. Of courseat our home the table is always piled high with food; it never stands there alone with a solitary cup of tea!
On the drive back, the scene replayed in my mind. How could anyone receive guests that way? I thought of our families, of 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 silent, 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 dupednot by the lack of food, but by the indifference I never expected from people who had become part of our family.
Invited by the In-Laws: Unveiling a Dazzling Dinner Table Experience
