My wife Megan poured her heart into our family’s monthly dinners, but all she got in return were cruel comments from my relatives. After witnessing her tears one too many times, I set up a secret test to expose the real reason behind their relentless criticism. What I found out left me heartbroken.
Our family has a long-standing tradition of hosting monthly dinners, a custom that dates back to when my dad was a kid. My grandmother started it all by bringing her siblings together over meals, which strengthened their bond.
As Dad and his siblings grew up, they adopted this tradition and invited each other over for dinner every month. I still remember how my siblings and I used to wait for that day each month so we could meet our cousins and have a great time.
Mind you, these weren’t just ordinary family dinners. Dad would go all out with the decorations, while Mom ensured there were at least three dishes on the table.
Now, since my siblings and I have grown up, we have also adopted this wonderful tradition.
A few months ago, my older sister, Angela, invited us to her place and she made the most delicious chicken pie I’ve eaten! Even my wife, Megan, loved it.
Since we took turns hosting, I had also invited my siblings, along with their spouses and kids, to our place multiple times. I have two older siblings; Dan and Angela, and two younger siblings; David and Gloria.
Usually, we have around 13-14 people when everyone comes over with their spouses and kids. Occasionally, my aunt Martha joins us too. We’ve always been close to her.
My wife was excited to be part of the tradition when we first started, even before we were married. Initially, I did the cooking, but she took over after a while.
“You know I find cooking to be very therapeutic, babe,” she reassured me. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything.”
That’s just how Megan is. So understanding and helpful.
I thought everything would be fine until the day we hosted dinner and revealed that Megan had cooked the food.
“I knew it!” Angela said. “I was wondering why the food tastes so off today. It’s just… so bland!”
“I agree,” Dan muttered. “Why is the chicken so dry?”
“Maybe use less seasoning next time,” Mom added.
I’ll never forget the look on Megan’s face that day. It hurt to see her so crushed, especially after all the effort she had put in.
“I think the chicken is perfect!” I cheered for Megan. “What do you think, David?”
“Yeah, it’s really nice,” David smiled at Megan. “It’s perfect!”
“Shouldn’t you cook what everyone likes?” my aunt asked Megan. “That way, no one will complain next time.”
“Yeah, I…” Megan began in a trembling voice, almost on the verge of crying. “I’ll cook something else next time.”
What’s wrong with them? I thought. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the chicken Megan had made. Honestly, it was even better than what I’d cooked the other day.
Later that night, I found Megan crying in the bedroom.
“Babe, they shouldn’t have treated you like that,” I said, hugging her tightly. “Your cooking was amazing. I promise. Even David loved it.”
“Only David said that,” she cried. “Everyone else hated it. I won’t cook for them again.”
“Hey, don’t let them get you down,” I said, looking her in the eyes. “You’re strong, remember?”
That night, I convinced Megan to cook for my family at the next family dinner, but I guess that was the biggest mistake of my life.
Megan cooked my mom’s favorite roasted chicken with a side of veggies, and the red sauce pasta that Angela loved. She had perfected her recipe by watching a couple of YouTube videos, hoping my family would love it.
However, when it was time for dinner, Mom and Angela passed the meanest remarks. I couldn’t believe my ears because I thought the food was phenomenal.
“I don’t think you should ever make this pasta again, Meg,” Angela said, shaking her head. “It tastes awful.”
“I’ll send you my recipe tonight,” Mom said, discreetly spitting out a piece of chicken. “This isn’t what I’d call roasted chicken.”
Megan just shook her head in silence as she looked at each one of them. Then, she walked into the kitchen, and I followed. I knew she was already in tears.
“Babe, I loved the food,” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder. “I don’t get why Mom and Angela are acting this way.”
“Your sister said the pasta tastes bad!” Megan whispered as tears trickled down her cheeks. “I made the one dish she loves the most and she doesn’t even like it. What am I supposed to do?”
That’s when I heard Mom say something that sent a wave of anger up my chest.
“She’s not even trying,” Mom said in a low voice so we couldn’t hear her.
“Didn’t she learn from last time?” my father’s voice echoed through the living room.
That’s when I rushed toward the dinner table to defend Megan. I couldn’t take it anymore.