Standing Up for Love
My wife, Megan, poured her heart into our family’s monthly dinners, but instead of getting gratitude, all she received were hurtful comments from my relatives. After seeing her in tears too many times, I decided to take action. I set up a secret test to find out why they were being so harsh. What I discovered broke my heart.
Our family has a long-standing tradition of monthly dinners that my grandmother started. She wanted to bring her siblings together over delicious meals, strengthening their bond. My dad and his siblings kept the tradition alive, and I remember those dinners as the best part of my childhood.
These dinners weren’t just meals; they were events! Dad would go all out with decorations, making everything look festive. Mom always made sure there were at least three main dishes. One time, Dad even ordered pizza for us kids, turning the night into an unforgettable party filled with laughter and fun.
Now that my siblings and I are adults, we’ve continued this tradition. 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, including my two older siblings, Angela and Dan; my two younger siblings, David and Gloria; and sometimes even my Aunt Martha. Megan was excited to join this tradition and took over the cooking early on because, as she put it, “I find it so therapeutic.”
But the first time we hosted after she took charge, everything went horribly wrong. 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 spirit crushed under the weight of 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 and said, “It’s really nice. I love it.”
But the damage was done. Later that night, I found Megan crying in the kitchen. “I won’t cook for them again,” she said through tears. “They hate everything I make.”
Feeling 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, wrinkling her nose. “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 into the kitchen, where she was trying to compose herself. “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 doing this on purpose? To find out, I suggested a plan. At our next dinner, we would serve Megan’s food, but I would claim I had cooked it.
Megan was hesitant, afraid of facing more humiliation, but eventually, she agreed. She prepared the same roasted chicken and red sauce pasta again, pouring her heart into every dish. When our guests arrived, I announced confidently, “I cooked everything tonight.”
The response was overwhelming. “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. The truth was clear: the same dishes they had criticized when they thought Megan cooked them were now being hailed as perfection.
I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “So, you all loved the food, right?” I asked, my voice filled with challenge.
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, but the damage was done.
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 our absence. When my mom called to ask why, 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, frustration clear in her voice.
“I’m standing by my wife,” I said firmly. “If you can’t respect her, you don’t respect me.”
Later, Gloria confirmed what I had suspected all along. “Mom and Angela never approved of Megan,” she admitted. “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!
