Invited by the inlaws: the unveiling of a dazzling table
Our parentsinlaw asked us over to their home, and when I laid eyes on their dining spread I was utterly stunned.
For three days I rehearsed my preparations as if I were facing a crucial exam. I grew up in a village near Bordeaux where hospitality was more than a customit was a sacred duty. From childhood I was taught that a guest must leave full and content, even if it means offering the very last slice of bread. At our house the table was always overflowing: cured meats, artisanal cheeses, fresh vegetables, little bites, pies. It wasnt merely a meal; it was a sign of respect, a symbol of warmth and generosity.
Our daughter Camille had married a few months earlier. We had already met the inlaws, but only in neutral settingsat a café and during the wedding. They had never stepped into our cozy apartment on the outskirts of Paris, and the thought of hosting them made me nervous. I suggested they come over on Sunday, hoping we could grow closer and get to know each other better. My motherinlaw, Élodie, accepted enthusiastically, and I sprang into action: I stocked up, bought fruit, ice cream, and baked my famous creamandnut cake. Hospitality runs in my veins, and I poured everything into making sure I wouldnt disappoint them.
The parentsinlaw turned out to be highly educatedboth university professors, exuding a poise and intellect that command respect. I feared awkward silence, but 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 nights 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 my best. Of course, I baked another cakestorebought ones never move me; they lack soul. My husband, Pierre, complained this morning about wanting to eat before we left, but I cut him off: Élodie said shed handle our visit. If you arrive with a full stomach shed be offended! Hold on. He sighed, then complied.
When we arrived at their city apartment, I was awestruck. The interior looked like a glossy magazine spread: fresh renovations, expensive furniture, elegant details. I expected a special setting and a convivial evening. Yet, once we were led to the living room and I saw their table, my heart stopped in amazement. It was bare. No plates, no napkins, not a hint of a snack. Tea or coffee? Élodie asked with a faint smile, as if the answer 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 strippeddown table, a knot of resentment and confusion grew inside me. Pierre sat beside me, his eyes betraying a 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 to leave. We thanked them, said goodbye, and they nonchalantly announced they would visit us the next week. Of courseat our place the table is always piled high with food; it never sits there lonely with a single cup of tea!
On the drive back, the scene replayed in my mind. How could one welcome 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 another 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 cheatednot by the lack of food, but by an indifference I never expected from people who had become part of our family.
Invited by the In-Laws: Unveiling a Stunning Dinner Table
