Invited by the In-Laws: A Dazzling Table Revealed
The in-laws invited us to their home. When I saw their table, I was utterly stunned.
For three days, I had prepared to host them as though facing a solemn trial. I grew up in a village near York, where hospitality was not mere custom but a sacred duty. From childhood, I was taught that a guest must leave well-fed and content, even if it meant parting with the last loaf of bread. In our home, the table always groaned with foodcold cuts, handcrafted cheeses, garden vegetables, savouries, and pies. It was more than a meal; it was a mark of respect, a token of warmth and generosity.
Our daughter, Alice, had married a few months prior. We had met the in-laws before, but only in neutral spacesa tearoom, the wedding. They had yet to visit our snug cottage on the outskirts of London, and I was nervous to receive them properly. I proposed they come that Sunday, hoping we might grow closer. My mother-in-law, Margaret, agreed at once, and I threw myself into preparations: stocking the pantry, buying fresh fruit, ice cream, and baking my famous walnut-and-cream cake. Hospitality ran in my blood, and I spared no effort to ensure theyd feel welcome.
They proved refined folkboth university lecturers, dignified and sharp-witted. I feared awkward silences, but the evening passed pleasantly. We spoke of the childrens future, shared jokes, and lingered late. Alice and her husband joined us after, and the air grew warmer still. As they left, the in-laws invited us to their home the following week. Their enjoyment of the evening gladdened my heart.
The invitation filled me with joy. I even bought a new dressnavy blue, modestly cut, to make a good impression. Naturally, I baked another cake; shop-bought ones lacked soul. My husband, Henry, grumbled that morning about eating before we left, but I chided him: “Margaret said shed see to our visit. If you arrive full, shell take offense! Bear with it.” He sighed but obeyed.
When we reached their city flat, I marvelled. The place belonged in a magazinerecently refurbished, furniture gleaming, every detail polished. I anticipated a cosy evening. But when we entered the parlour and I saw their table, my heart faltered. It was… bare. No plates, no napkins, not a crumb in sight. “Tea or coffee?” Margaret asked with a faint smile, as though it were the most natural thing. The only offering was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. Tea and a slicethat was our “feast.”
Staring at that barren table, resentment swelled in me. Henry sat beside me, hunger plain in his eyes. Silent, but I knew: he was counting the minutes until we could leave. I forced a smile and declared it time to go. We thanked them, and as we parted, the in-laws casually mentioned returning to ours the next week. Of courseour table would groan as ever, not stand empty but for a lonely teacup!
In the carriage home, the scene haunted me. How could anyone receive guests so? I thought of our families, the chasm between our notions of hospitality. To me, a table was the heart of a home, a sign of care; to them, it seemed mere furniture. Henry stayed quiet, but I knewhe dreamed of the roast chicken waiting in our larder. That morning, Id denied him, and now he gazed out the window like a wronged man. And I, too, felt deceivednot by the lack of food, but by the indifference Id never expected from those now bound to us by family.
