Standing Up for Love
My wife, Megan, always put her heart and soul into our family’s monthly dinners. She wanted to create special moments for everyone, but instead of gratitude, all she got were mean comments from my relatives. After seeing her in tears too many times, I decided to take action.
I set up a secret test to uncover the real reason behind their harsh criticism. What I discovered broke my heart.
Our family has a long tradition of monthly dinners, started by my grandmother many years ago. She wanted to bring her siblings together over shared meals, creating a strong bond between them. My dad and his siblings carried on this tradition, and I remember those dinners as the best part of my childhood.
These dinners weren’t just meals—they were events! My dad would go all out with decorations, turning our home into a festive place. Mom always made sure there were at least three delicious dishes on the table. One time, Dad even ordered pizza for us kids, making it feel like a party night!
Now that my siblings and I are adults, we’ve kept this tradition alive. A few months ago, my older sister Angela hosted one of these dinners, and her chicken pie was such a hit that even Megan couldn’t stop raving about how delicious it was.
When it’s our turn to host, Megan and I open our home to about 13 or 14 family members. This includes my two older siblings, Angela and Dan; my two younger siblings, David and Gloria; and sometimes even my Aunt Martha. Megan was thrilled to join this tradition, taking over the cooking early on because, as she said, “I find it so therapeutic.”
But the first time we hosted after she took charge, the meal turned into a nightmare. As soon as Angela took her first bite, she exclaimed, “I knew it! This chicken is so bland!”
Dan jumped in with, “Why is it so dry?” Even my mom added her two cents: “Maybe use less seasoning next time.” I watched as Megan’s smile faded, her excitement crushed by their harsh words.
I tried to cheer her up. “The chicken is perfect,” I said, hoping to lift her spirits. “What do you think, David?”
David smiled warmly. “It’s really nice. I love it.”
But the damage was done. Later that night, I found Megan in the bedroom, tears streaming down her face. “I won’t cook for them again,” she said, her voice shaking. “They hate everything I make.”
I felt terrible. I wanted to encourage her, so I convinced Megan to give it another shot at the next dinner. She poured her heart into the meal again, cooking my mom’s favorite roasted chicken and Angela’s beloved red sauce pasta.
She spent hours refining the recipes, determined to impress everyone. But when the food hit the table, the same scene unfolded.
“This pasta is awful,” Angela declared, scrunching her nose in disgust. “I’ll send you my recipe,” my mom added, discreetly spitting out a bite of chicken into her napkin. Megan sat in silence, holding back tears until she could escape to the kitchen.
I followed her. “Your cooking is incredible,” I assured her. “I don’t understand why they’re acting like this.”
Megan looked at me, her eyes filled with sadness. “Why do they hate me?”
Her words lingered in my mind. Were they really being this cruel on purpose? I needed to find out. I suggested a plan. At our next dinner, we would serve Megan’s food, but I would take credit for it.
Megan was hesitant, afraid of more humiliation, but eventually, she agreed. She prepared the same roasted chicken and red sauce pasta again. When our guests arrived, I announced with confidence, “I cooked everything tonight.”
The response was incredible. “This is the best pasta I’ve ever had!” Angela said, her eyes lighting up. “I’m glad you’re back in charge,” Dad added, nodding in approval. Even Mom raved, “Now this is how roasted chicken should taste!”
David and Gloria struggled to hide their laughter as our relatives praised every dish. I exchanged a glance with Megan, who gave me a knowing smile. It was clear: the same dishes they had criticized when they thought Megan cooked them were now being called perfection.
I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “So, you all loved the food, right?” I asked, my voice challenging.
They nodded enthusiastically.
“Well, Megan made everything,” I revealed, my voice strong. “The same dishes you’ve been criticizing for months.”
The room fell silent. My mom’s face turned bright red, and Angela suddenly found her drink very interesting. My dad tried to save face. “Well, maybe her cooking has improved,” he muttered, looking uncomfortable.
That night, Megan and I decided to stop hosting the dinners. “You deserve better than this,” I told her firmly. “I’m done with their toxic behavior.”
Megan hesitated. “But it’s your family’s tradition. You should still go.”
“I don’t care about traditions anymore,” I said. “They disrespected you, and I won’t tolerate that.”
We skipped the next few dinners, and soon my family began to notice. When my mom called to ask why we weren’t attending, I told her the truth. “You’ve been cruel to Megan for no reason. We’re not coming back.”
“Brandon, you’re ruining your relationship with us because of her!” my mom yelled, her voice filled with anger.
“I’m standing by my wife,” I said firmly. “If you can’t respect her, you don’t respect me.”
Later, Gloria, my younger sister, confirmed what I had suspected. “Mom and Angela never approved of Megan,” she admitted quietly. “They think she’s too different and not ‘family enough.’”
Gloria’s words solidified my decision. Megan deserved love and appreciation, not judgment and ridicule. From that moment on, we focused on creating our own traditions—ones filled with kindness and mutual respect.
In the end, I realized that what truly matters isn’t keeping up appearances or clinging to old customs. It’s about standing up for the people you love and building a life where everyone at the table feels valued.
What do you think of the story? Did I make the right choice? Share your thoughts in the comments below!
