**Diary Entry, Sunday Evening**
My in-laws invited us over today, and what I saw at their table left me utterly speechless.
For three days, I prepared for their visit like it was some grand exam. I grew up in a village near York, where hospitality wasn’t just tradition—it was sacred duty. My parents taught me early: a guest must leave full and happy, even if it meant giving your last. In our home, the table groaned under the weight of food—roast beef, fresh cheeses, vegetables, pies. It wasn’t just about eating; it was respect, warmth, generosity.
Our daughter, Emily, married just a few months ago. We’d met the in-laws before—in cafés, at the wedding—but never in our cosy flat in the outskirts of London. I was nervous, my hands shaking as I suggested Sunday dinner. I wanted us to bond. My mother-in-law, Margaret, agreed easily, and I threw myself into preparations—bought the finest ingredients, fresh fruit, ice cream, baked my signature walnut cake. Hospitality’s in my blood, and I poured everything into making them feel welcome.
They were refined people—both university lecturers, good-mannered, quick-witted. I’d feared awkward silence, but the evening flowed smoothly. We talked of the children’s future, laughed over stories. Emily and her husband joined us later, and the warmth only grew. At the end, my in-laws invited us to theirs the following week. I took it as a good sign—they’d enjoyed themselves—and it warmed me through.
Their invitation lifted me. I even bought a new dress—navy blue, modest but elegant—and, of course, baked another cake. My husband, William, grumbled about eating before we left, but I cut him off. “Margaret said she’s gone to trouble. Show up full? Rude. Just wait.” He sighed but obeyed.
When we arrived at their flat, I gasped. The place looked straight from a magazine—high ceilings, tasteful furniture, everything pristine. I expected an evening of warmth, but when we entered the dining room, my heart sank. The table was… empty. No plates, no napkins, not even a crumb. “Tea or coffee?” Margaret asked casually, as if that were enough. The only food was my cake, which she praised before asking for the recipe. Tea and a slice—that was the sum of their hospitality.
I stared at that bare table, a knot of hurt and confusion tightening inside. William sat beside me, hunger and disappointment simmering in his eyes. He didn’t say a word, but I knew—he was counting the minutes until home. I forced a smile, said we ought to leave. We thanked them, said goodbye, and they, unfazed, announced they’d visit us next week. Of course they would—our table’s always heaving, not standing bare like a forgotten prop.
In the car, the image wouldn’t leave me. How could anyone treat guests like that? Our families were worlds apart—hospitality wasn’t just etiquette to me; it was love made visible. To them, it seemed a table was just furniture. William stayed quiet, but I knew—he was dreaming of the roast chicken waiting in our fridge. I’d made him skip breakfast for this. Now he stared out the window like a betrayed man. And I felt it too—not cheated of food, but of the care I’d assumed was natural between family.
**Lesson learned:** Generosity isn’t universal. Some pour their heart into a meal—others measure it by the teaspoon. But at least my cake was good.