My wife, Emily, poured her heart into our family’s monthly dinners, but all she got were c.r.u.el jabs from my relatives. After seeing her cry one too many times, I devised a secret test to expose the real reason behind their endless criticism. What I discovered broke my heart.
Our family has a long-standing tradition of monthly dinners, started by my grandmother when my dad was a kid. She brought her siblings together over meals, strengthening their bond.
As Dad and his siblings grew up, they kept the tradition, inviting each other for dinner every month. I still remember how my siblings and I eagerly awaited those days to meet our cousins and have a blast.
These weren’t just regular dinners. Dad went all out with decorations, while Mom ensured at least three dishes graced the table. One time, Dad even ordered pizza for us kids, making it one of our best nights ever.
Now that my siblings and I are grown, we’ve carried on this wonderful tradition. A few months ago, my older sister, Sarah, invited us over and made the most delicious chicken pie I’ve ever tasted! Even Emily loved it.
We take turns hosting, so I’ve invited my siblings, their spouses, and kids to our place several times. I have two older siblings, Mark and Sarah, and two younger ones, Luke and Hannah. Usually, we have 13-14 people when everyone shows up. Sometimes, my aunt Clara joins us too—we’ve always been close to her.
Emily was thrilled to join the tradition, even before we married. I cooked at first, but she soon took over.
“Cooking’s relaxing for me, babe,” she reassured me. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
That’s just Emily—always understanding and eager to help.
I thought everything was fine until we hosted a dinner and revealed Emily had cooked.
“I knew it!” Sarah snapped, her voice dripping with disdain, making everyone turn. “No wonder the food’s off tonight. It’s so bland it’s practically tasteless!”
“Agreed,” Mark muttered, grimacing as he poked at his plate. “Why’s the chicken so dry?”
“Use less seasoning next time,” Mom added, her tone sharp, like Emily had ruined the meal.
I’ll never forget Emily’s face—her smile shattered, eyes glistening with hurt, as if her hours of effort had been stomped on.
“The chicken’s perfect!” I said, trying to lift her spirits. “Luke, what do you think?”
“Yeah, it’s great,” Luke smiled at Emily. “Really good!”
“Shouldn’t you cook what we all like?” Clara asked Emily, her voice patronizing. “That way, no one’s disappointed next time.”
“Y-yeah, I…” Emily started, her voice trembling, on the verge of tears. “I’ll try something else next time.”
What’s wrong with them? I thought. Emily’s chicken was flawless—better than anything I’d cooked recently.
That night, I found Emily crying in our bedroom.
“Babe, they shouldn’t treat you like that,” I said, hugging her tightly. “Your cooking was amazing, I swear. Luke loved it too.”
“Only Luke said that,” she sobbed. “Everyone else hated it. I’m done cooking for them.”
“Don’t let them break you,” I said, looking into her eyes. “You’re stronger than this.”
That night, I convinced Emily to cook for the next family dinner, but it was probably my biggest mistake.
Emily made Mom’s favorite roasted chicken with veggies and Sarah’s beloved red sauce pasta, perfecting the recipes with YouTube tutorials, hoping to win them over.
But at dinner, Mom and Sarah unleashed their harshest criticism yet. I couldn’t believe my ears—the food was incredible.
“You should never make this pasta again, Emily,” Sarah said, shaking her head with a sneer, as if the dish offended her. “It’s absolutely awful.”
“I’ll send you my recipe tonight,” Mom said, spitting out a piece of chicken into her napkin with a disgusted look. “This isn’t roasted chicken.”
Emily shook her head silently, her eyes scanning their faces, pain etched deep. She fled to the kitchen, and I followed, knowing she was already in tears.
“Babe, I loved the food,” I said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t get why Mom and Sarah are acting like this.”
“Your sister said the pasta’s bad!” Emily whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I made her favorite dish, and she hates it. What am I supposed to do?”
Then I overheard Mom’s words, and anger surged through me.
“She’s not even trying,” Mom muttered, thinking we couldn’t hear.
“Didn’t she learn from last time?” Dad’s voice echoed from the living room.
I stormed to the dining table, unable to hold back.
“Can’t you be nice to her? Why all this drama?” I confronted them, my voice tight with frustration. “Why can’t you appreciate her? She works so hard for you all!”
“Really?” Sarah raised an eyebrow, her tone mocking. “Then why can’t she get anything right?”
“If she cooked better, we wouldn’t complain,” Mom scoffed. “We’re not asking for fancy food, just something edible.”
Arguing with them was pointless, so I returned to the kitchen. Emily stood there, arms crossed, having heard my outburst.
“They never complained when you cooked,” she said. “Are they doing this on purpose?”
Her words sparked suspicion. Were they targeting her deliberately?
A few days ago, when it was our turn to host again, I suggested a secret test. I told Emily we’d pretend I cooked, while she’d prepare everything.
At first, she refused, dreading more humiliation. But I insisted, certain it would reveal the truth. She agreed, reluctantly.
Emily made the same dishes: red sauce pasta and roasted chicken.
As everyone sat down, I stood, heart pounding, feeling like I was stepping onto a stage. “I cooked everything tonight,” I announced, my voice steady but charged, eyes scanning their faces. “Used your chicken recipe, Mom. Bet you’ll love it.”
And they did—more than I expected.
Mom raved about the roasted chicken, while Dad, Sarah, Mark, and Clara couldn’t stop praising it, acting like it was a gourmet feast.
“This is the best pasta I’ve ever had!” Sarah exclaimed, smacking her lips, eyes wide with delight. “Love it, James!”
“Glad you’re back in the kitchen!” Dad said, grinning.
“Man, I didn’t know my brother could cook like this!” Mark added.
I glanced at Emily, and I knew she saw it too. These were the same dishes they’d trashed before, but they thought I made them.
Luke and Hannah, my younger siblings, struggled to hide their laughter, in on the secret. Everyone else ate like it was the meal of a lifetime.
“Okay, I’ve got a confession,” I said, standing again, my voice sharp, commanding attention. “But first, you all loved the food, right?”
They nodded, still smiling.
“Well, I didn’t cook a thing,” I revealed, letting the words hang heavy in the air. “This was all Emily’s magic. She’s been cooking for you for months.”
The room fell deathly silent.
Mom’s face flushed red with embarrassment, Sarah stared at her glass, her hands fidgeting. Dad tried to backtrack, “Well… maybe she’s gotten better at cooking?”
They scrambled to cover up, but the truth was out. Emily and I finally understood their game.
Later that night, in our bedroom, I apologized to Emily for everything.
“I’m done with these dinners,” I told her. “This was our last one—hosting or attending. I won’t be part of it if they just want to humiliate you.”
“But it’s your family tradition,” Emily said. “You should at least go.”
“I don’t care about tradition anymore,” I said, rolling my eyes. “They disrespected you, and I can’t stand that.”
We skipped the next dinners, and after two months, my parents and siblings started asking questions. I told them straight we weren’t coming back.
“You ruined everything by humiliating my wife,” I told Mom one day.
“Seriously, James? You can’t do this!” she shouted over the phone. “You’re wrecking our family over her.”
I hung up, knowing arguing was futile. Their constant complaints now made sense. They didn’t like Emily, and Hannah confirmed it.
“Mom and Sarah have always been like that,” she revealed. “They pretended to like Emily because you wanted to marry her, but they never approved. They think she’s too different, not ‘family enough.’”
Hannah’s words confirmed my fears, but also my decision to stand by Emily. She deserved better than a family that couldn’t value her.
Moving forward, I realized our little family was what mattered most. The love and support we shared outweighed outdated traditions or hurtful opinions.
Emily and I decided to create our own traditions, filled with respect and kindness, where every meal felt like home, no matter who cooked it.
