Invited by the inlaws: the shock of a bare table
Our inlaws asked to come over, and when I saw their table I was utterly stunned.
For three days I prepared as if I were facing a crucial exam, getting ready to welcome my husbands parents. 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 it means offering the last slice of bread. In our home the table was always overflowing with charcuterie, artisanal cheeses, vegetables, appetizers, piesmore than a meal, a sign of respect, warmth, and generosity.
Our daughter Camille had married a few months earlier. We had already met the inlaws, but only in neutral placesa café, at 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 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 famous creamandnut cake. Hospitality runs in my blood, and I poured my heart into making sure I wouldnt disappoint them.
Both of them turned out to be highly educated university professors, exuding a dignified presence and a sharp intellect that command respect. I feared an awkward silence, but the evening turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. We talked about our childrens futures, joked, laughed, and stayed up late. Camille and her husband joined us later, and the atmosphere grew even cozier. At the end, the inlaws invited us to their home the following week. I sensed they had enjoyed the meeting, which warmed my heart.
The invitation filled me with joy. I even bought a new navyblue dress with a modest neckline so I could look elegant. Naturally, I baked another cakestorebought ones never move me; they lack soul. My husband, Pierre, was complaining this morning about having to eat before we left, but I cut him off: Élodie said shes handling 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 resembled a glossy magazine spread: recent renovations, expensive furniture, sleek details. I expected a special, convivial evening. Yet, when we were led to the living room and I saw their table, my heart stopped in disbelief. It was empty. No plates, no napkins, not a crumb in sight. 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 naked table, a knot of resentment and incomprehension grew inside me. Pierre sat beside me, his eyes showing 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, said goodbye, and the inlaws announced, as if nothing had happened, that they would come to our place the next week. Of courseat our home the table is always buried under 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 host 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 cheatednot 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
