My wife, Emily, put her heart into preparing our family’s monthly dinners, but all she got in return were harsh, cruel remarks from my relatives. After seeing her cry more times than I could count, I decided to set up a secret test to uncover the real reason behind their endless criticism. What I discovered broke my heart.
Our family has a tradition going back years — monthly dinners started by my grandmother when my dad was young. She used to gather her siblings for meals to keep their bond strong.
As my dad and his siblings grew older, they kept the tradition alive, inviting each other over for dinner every month. My siblings and I eagerly awaited those nights to hang out with cousins and have fun.
These dinners were more than just meals. Dad went all out with decorations, and Mom always made sure there were at least three dishes on the table. One time, Dad even surprised us kids by ordering pizza, making it one of our best nights ever.
Now that my siblings and I are grown, we’ve continued the tradition. A few months ago, my older sister Sarah hosted and made the most delicious chicken pie I’ve ever tasted! Even Emily loved it.
We take turns hosting. I’ve invited my siblings, their spouses, and kids to our place multiple times. I have two older siblings—Mark and Sarah—and two younger ones—Luke and Hannah. Usually, about 13 or 14 people show up. Sometimes our aunt Clara joins us too; we’ve always been close to her.
Emily was excited to join in even before we were married. At first, I cooked, but soon she took over.
“Cooking relaxes me, babe,” she said, reassuring me. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”
That’s Emily for you—always kind and eager to help.
I thought everything was fine until the night we hosted and Emily cooked.
“I knew it!” Sarah snapped, voice dripping with disdain, making heads turn. “No wonder the food tastes off tonight. It’s so bland it’s practically flavorless!”
“Yeah, agreed,” Mark muttered, grimacing while poking at his plate. “Why is the chicken so dry?”
“Use less seasoning next time,” Mom chimed in sharply, as if Emily had ruined the whole meal.
I’ll never forget Emily’s face—her smile shattered, eyes glistening with hurt, like her hours of effort had been crushed.
“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?” Aunt Clara asked patronizingly. “That way no one’s disappointed next time.”
“Y-yeah, I…” Emily stammered, 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 made recently.
That night, I found Emily crying in our bedroom.
“Babe, they shouldn’t treat you like that,” I said, holding her close. “Your cooking was amazing, I promise. 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 told her, looking into her eyes. “You’re stronger than this.”
I convinced her to cook for the next family dinner, but looking back, that was probably my biggest mistake.
Emily prepared 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 criticisms 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, like the dish offended her. “It’s absolutely awful.”
“I’ll send you my recipe tonight,” Mom said, spitting out a piece of chicken with disgust. “This isn’t roasted chicken.”
Emily silently shook her head, eyes scanning their faces, pain etched deep. She fled to the kitchen in tears. I followed, knowing she was already upset.
“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. “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 back to the dining table.
“Can’t you be nicer to her? Why all this drama?” I confronted them, voice tight with frustration. “Why can’t you appreciate her? She works so hard for you all!”
“Really?” Sarah mocked. “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.”
It was pointless arguing, so I returned to the kitchen. Emily stood there, arms crossed, having heard everything.
“They never complained when you cooked,” she said. “Are they doing this on purpose?”
Her words made me suspicious. Were they deliberately targeting her?
A few days later, when it was our turn to host again, I suggested a secret test. I told Emily we’d pretend I cooked while she prepared 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 with my heart pounding, feeling like I was stepping onto a stage.
“I cooked everything tonight,” I announced, 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 grinned.
“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’d 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, confession time,” I said, standing again, voice sharp, commanding attention. “But first, you all loved the food, right?”
They nodded, 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 went deathly silent.
Mom’s face flushed with embarrassment. Sarah stared at her glass, 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.
“I’m done with these dinners,” I said. “That 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 tearing our family apart because of her.”
I hung up, knowing arguing was pointless. Their constant complaints now made sense. They never liked Emily. Hannah confirmed it.
“Mom and Sarah have always been like that,” she said. “They pretended to like Emily because you wanted to marry her, but they never approved. They think she’s too different, not ‘family enough.’”
Hearing that confirmed my fears, but also strengthened my decision to stand by Emily. She deserved better than a family that didn’t appreciate her.
Moving forward, I realized our little family was what mattered most. The love and support we shared outweighed old traditions and hurtful opinions.
Emily and I decided to build our own traditions, filled with respect and kindness, where every meal felt like home, no matter who cooked it.