My wife, Megan, always poured her heart and soul into preparing our family’s monthly dinners. Yet, instead of receiving gratitude, she got harsh and cruel comments from my relatives. After seeing her cry over and over, I decided to find out why they were so critical. What I discovered broke my heart.
Our family had a tradition of hosting monthly dinners that started with my grandmother. She believed sharing meals brought family closer. My dad continued this tradition with his family, and my siblings and I looked forward to it every month. These dinners were special—Dad decorated the house, and Mom always made sure there were at least three homemade dishes.
Now that we’re grown, my siblings and I keep the tradition alive, taking turns hosting. When Megan and I started hosting, she was excited to join in. She loves cooking and finds it relaxing, so she took over most of the kitchen duties. But the first time she cooked for my family, things went wrong.
“I knew something tasted off,” Angela, my sister, said, pushing her plate away. “It’s just bland.”
Dan, my brother, muttered, “Yeah, the chicken’s dry.”
Even my mom said, “Maybe a bit less seasoning next time.”
Megan’s face fell. I tried to defend her, praising the food, but it was too late. Later that night, I found her in tears. Despite my reassurances that her cooking was good, Megan was devastated. She didn’t want to cook for my family again, but I convinced her to give it another try.
At the next dinner, Megan worked hard to perfect her dishes. She made my mom’s favorite roasted chicken and Angela’s beloved red sauce pasta. But once again, their reactions were cold. Angela complained that the pasta was awful, and my mom discreetly spit out the chicken, offering Megan her recipe. Seeing Megan’s silent tears was unbearable.
That’s when it hit me—something wasn’t right. I began to suspect their criticism wasn’t about the food. Determined to find out the truth, I came up with a plan. For the next dinner, Megan and I would pretend that I had cooked everything, even though she would be the one preparing it all.
Reluctantly, Megan agreed. When my family arrived, I proudly announced that I had made dinner, using my mom’s recipe for the chicken. As expected, they loved it. Angela raved about the pasta, calling it the best she’d ever had, while my parents and siblings praised the meal as if it were a five-star feast.
But I knew the truth—this was the same food Megan had made before, the very dishes they had harshly criticized. The difference? They thought I had cooked them.
“I need to confess something,” I said, getting everyone’s attention. “I didn’t cook anything. Megan made this dinner, just like she’s been doing for months.”
The room fell silent. My mom’s face turned red with embarrassment, and Angela avoided eye contact. They tried to backtrack, suggesting that Megan must have improved her cooking, but it was too late. The truth was out.
Later that night, I apologized to Megan for everything she had endured. I decided we wouldn’t be hosting or attending these dinners anymore if all they wanted to do was humiliate her. Despite her initial protests about family traditions, I was firm. Megan deserved better than their constant disrespect.
After we skipped a few dinners, my family started asking questions. I told them plainly that we weren’t coming back. “You ruined it by constantly criticizing Megan,” I said to my mom during a phone call.
“Are you serious, Brandon? You’re choosing her over us?” she yelled. But I didn’t let her guilt trip me. My decision was final.
Later, my younger sister, Gloria, confirmed my fears. “Mom and Angela never really liked Megan,” she admitted. “They only pretended to because they knew you wanted to marry her. They think she’s too different, not ‘family’ enough.”
Hearing that solidified my choice. I knew I had done the right thing by standing by Megan. She deserved a family that appreciated her for who she was, not one that tore her down.
As we moved forward, Megan and I began creating our own family traditions—ones built on love, respect, and kindness, where every meal felt like home, no matter who cooked it.