Megan, my wife, put her whole heart into preparing our family’s monthly dinners. She spent hours planning, cooking, and making sure everything was perfect. But instead of appreciation, all she got were harsh comments from my relatives. After seeing her cry one too many times, I decided to set up a test. I needed to know the real reason behind their constant criticism. What I found out shattered me.
Our family’s monthly dinners had been a tradition for as long as I could remember. It all started with my grandmother, who used to gather her siblings for meals, strengthening their bond. My dad and his siblings carried it on, and soon, my generation picked it up as well. As kids, my siblings and I would look forward to these gatherings, excited to meet our cousins, eat delicious food, and have a great time.
These weren’t just any dinners. Dad took care of the decorations, while Mom made sure there were at least three main dishes on the table. Once, Dad even surprised us kids with pizza, and that night became one of my favorite childhood memories.
Now, as adults, my siblings and I kept the tradition alive. My older sister, Angela, recently hosted one of these dinners, and her homemade chicken pie was a hit. Megan and I both loved it. We all took turns hosting, so when it was my turn, I invited my two older siblings, Dan and Angela, my two younger siblings, David and Gloria, their spouses, and their kids. Sometimes, even my aunt Martha joined us. It usually made for a gathering of 13-14 people.
Megan was excited to be part of the tradition, even before we got married. At first, I did the cooking, but over time, she took over.
“You know I find cooking therapeutic, babe,” she said one day with a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything.”
That’s just the kind of person Megan is—kind, thoughtful, and always willing to help.
Everything seemed fine until one night, after Megan had prepared dinner, and I revealed she was the one who had cooked.
“I knew it!” Angela said, pushing her plate away. “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?”
Mom took a bite and frowned. “Maybe use less seasoning next time,” she said.
I’ll never forget the way Megan’s face fell in that moment. She had put in so much effort, only to be torn down so casually.
“I think the chicken is perfect!” I said, trying to lift Megan’s spirits. “What do you think, David?”
David nodded quickly. “Yeah, it’s really nice! It’s perfect!”
“Shouldn’t you cook what everyone likes?” Aunt Martha added, looking at Megan. “That way, no one will complain next time.”
Megan’s hands trembled as she forced a small smile. “Yeah, I… I’ll cook something else next time.”
Later that night, I found her crying in our bedroom.
“Babe, they shouldn’t have treated you like that,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. “Your cooking was amazing. Even David loved it.”
“Only David said that,” she whispered, tears running down her cheeks. “Everyone else hated it. I won’t cook for them again.”
“Hey, don’t let them get to you,” I said gently. “You’re strong, remember?”
That night, I convinced her to try one more time. She spent hours perfecting my mom’s favorite roasted chicken and Angela’s beloved red sauce pasta. She watched YouTube tutorials, adjusted seasonings, and worked tirelessly to make it just right.
But when dinner was served, the cruel remarks continued.
“I don’t think you should ever make this pasta again, Meg,” Angela said, shaking her head. “It tastes awful.”
Mom discreetly spit out a piece of chicken. “This isn’t what I’d call roasted chicken,” she said. “I’ll send you my recipe tonight.”
Megan stared at them in silence, then got up and walked to the kitchen. I followed her, knowing she was on the verge of breaking down.
“Babe, I loved the food,” I said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I don’t get why Mom and Angela are acting this way.”
She wiped a tear away. “Your sister said the pasta tastes bad! That’s her favorite dish! I don’t understand… What am I supposed to do?”
Then I heard my mom mutter something that made my blood boil.
“She’s not even trying.”
And then my father: “Didn’t she learn from last time?”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I marched back to the dining table.
“Can’t you guys just be nice to her?” I snapped. “What’s with all this drama? She always works so hard to cook for you!”
Angela raised an eyebrow. “Then why can’t she ever get anything right?”
Mom scoffed. “If she cooked better, we wouldn’t have to complain.”
I clenched my fists. Arguing was pointless, but something felt off. Megan’s words stuck in my mind. Were they doing this on purpose?
So, I came up with a plan. The next time we hosted dinner, I told Megan to cook the exact same dishes, but this time, I’d pretend I had cooked them.
At first, Megan refused, not wanting to be humiliated again, but she eventually agreed when I insisted.
When my family arrived, I placed the food on the table and smiled. “I cooked everything today,” I said. “I used your recipe for the chicken, Mom. I’m sure you’ll love it.”
And just like that, the reactions were completely different.
“This is the best pasta I’ve ever tasted!” Angela beamed. “I love it, Brandon!”
Dad grinned. “I’m glad you took over again!”
“Yeah, man,” Dan added, “I never knew my brother could cook this well!”
David and Gloria struggled to contain their laughter. Megan and I exchanged a knowing look. The food they were raving about was the exact same food they had insulted before.
“Okay, I need to confess something,” I said, catching everyone’s attention. “But before that, I just want to confirm—you all loved the food, right?”
They nodded enthusiastically.
“Well, I didn’t cook any of it. Megan did. Just like she’s been doing for months.”
The room fell silent.
Mom’s face turned red with embarrassment. Angela suddenly found her drink fascinating. Dad tried to save face. “Well… maybe she’s gotten better at cooking?”
They all tried to backtrack, but it was too late. The truth was clear now.
That night, Megan and I decided we were done with these family dinners.
“I won’t be part of a tradition that humiliates my wife,” I told her.
After two months of skipping dinners, my family started asking questions.
“You guys ruined everything by humiliating Megan,” I told Mom.
“Seriously, Brandon? You’re ruining your relationship with us because of her?” she yelled.
I hung up. There was no point arguing.
Later, Gloria confirmed what I had feared. “Mom and Angela never liked Megan. They just pretended to. They don’t think she belongs in the family.”
That was all I needed to hear.
Megan and I decided to create our own traditions—ones built on love, respect, and kindness. Because in the end, family isn’t just about blood. It’s about who stands by you, who appreciates you, and who makes every meal feel like home.
