Megan had always poured her heart into our family’s monthly dinners, but instead of appreciation, all she ever received were harsh, cutting remarks from my relatives. Watching her fight back tears after every gathering broke me. I had to find out why my family treated her this way, so I set up a secret test—one that revealed a heartbreaking truth.
Our family’s tradition of hosting monthly dinners had been around since my dad was a kid. My grandmother started the tradition, believing that shared meals kept family bonds strong. Over the years, it became more than just a dinner; it was a sacred ritual that brought laughter, storytelling, and togetherness.
When my siblings and I were young, we eagerly awaited these gatherings. My dad would decorate the house, my mom would cook an elaborate meal, and my cousins and I would run around, making memories. I still remember the time Dad surprised us with pizza—just one small gesture, yet it became one of our most cherished nights.
Now that we were all adults, we had continued the tradition. A few months ago, my sister Angela hosted a dinner, and I still remember the way Megan had gushed over her chicken pie.
“This is incredible! You have to share your recipe with me, Angela!” Megan had said, truly admiring her cooking.
Angela had smiled then, pleased with the compliment. But little did we know that Megan’s kindness wouldn’t be reciprocated when it was her turn to cook.
Megan had been excited when we first started hosting these dinners together, even before we were married. At first, I handled the cooking, but as time went on, Megan took over.
“You know cooking is my therapy, babe,” she had reassured me. “I love doing it.”
I never thought it would become an issue—until the night my family found out Megan was the one behind the food.
“I knew it!” Angela had blurted out, setting her fork down. “I was wondering why the food tastes so off today. It’s just… so bland!”
Dan shook his head. “Yeah, the chicken is so dry.”
“Maybe use less seasoning next time,” Mom added, her tone dripping with disapproval.
I’ll never forget the look on Megan’s face—her shoulders tensed, her hands curled into her lap. She was devastated.
“I think the chicken is perfect!” I tried to encourage her. “What do you think, David?”
David gave Megan a small, supportive smile. “Yeah, it’s really nice. It’s perfect!”
“Shouldn’t you cook what everyone likes?” Aunt Martha asked Megan. “That way, no one will complain next time.”
Megan lowered her gaze. “I… I’ll cook something else next time.”
I clenched my fists under the table. There was nothing wrong with the food, and I knew it. Later that night, I found Megan crying in our bedroom.
“Babe, they shouldn’t have treated you like that,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. “Your cooking was amazing. I promise. Even David loved it.”
“Only David said that,” she sniffled. “Everyone else hated it. I won’t cook for them again.”
That night, I convinced her to cook again for the next gathering, believing things would be different. That turned out to be my biggest mistake.
Megan spent days perfecting her dishes—Mom’s favorite roasted chicken, Angela’s beloved red sauce pasta. She watched cooking videos, took notes, and put her whole heart into it, hoping this time, they would love it.
But when dinner arrived, the comments were even crueler.
“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 into her napkin. “I’ll send you my recipe tonight. This isn’t what I’d call roasted chicken.”
Megan sat in silence, her hands trembling in her lap. Then she got up and walked into the kitchen. I followed, already knowing she was in tears.
“Babe, I loved the food,” I told her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t get why Mom and Angela are acting like this.”
“Your sister said the pasta tastes bad!” Megan whispered. “I made her favorite dish, and she doesn’t even like it. What am I supposed to do?”
And then, I overheard something that made my blood boil.
“She’s not even trying,” Mom muttered under her breath.
“Didn’t she learn from last time?” Dad added.
That was it. I stormed back to the dining table. “What is wrong with you guys?” I snapped. “Why are you always criticizing her? Do you have any idea how much effort she puts into these dinners?”
Angela rolled her eyes. “Then why can’t she ever get it right?”
“If she cooked better, we wouldn’t have to complain,” Mom said coldly.
That night, as I sat beside Megan, something dawned on me. Was it really the food they had a problem with? Or was it something else?
I came up with an idea to test them. At first, Megan refused. “I don’t want to be humiliated again,” she whispered.
“Just one last time, babe,” I insisted. “I need to know the truth.”
So, at our next dinner, Megan cooked the exact same dishes. But this time, I told my family that I had made them.
“I cooked everything today,” I announced proudly. “I even used your recipe for the chicken, Mom. I’m sure you’ll love it.”
The transformation was instant.
“Oh wow, Brandon!” Angela gushed. “This is the best pasta I’ve ever tasted!”
“I’m glad you took over again!” Dad chuckled.
“Yeah, man,” Dan added, “I never knew my brother could cook this well!”
I exchanged a look with Megan. We both knew the truth—this was the same food they had mocked before. The same dishes they had spat out in disgust, now being praised simply because they thought I had made them.
I cleared my throat. “Just to confirm, you all love the food, right?”
They all nodded, still gushing over their plates.
I leaned back and smirked. “Well, I have something to confess. I didn’t cook anything tonight. Megan did. Just like she’s been doing all these months.”
The room fell into an awkward silence. Mom turned red, Angela focused on her drink, and Dad coughed uncomfortably.
“Well… maybe she’s just gotten better?” Dad muttered.
I shook my head. “No, Dad. You all just refused to accept her.”
That night, I told Megan, “We’re done with these dinners.”
“But it’s your family tradition,” she whispered.
“I don’t care,” I said firmly. “They humiliated you. I won’t stand for that.”
Months passed, and we skipped every dinner. My family started asking questions, but I stood my ground.
“You ruined it by treating Megan like an outsider,” I told Mom.
“You’re choosing her over us?” she snapped.
“No,” I said, “I’m choosing respect.”
Gloria later confirmed what I had suspected. “Mom and Angela never liked Megan. They just pretended to.”
That was all I needed to hear. Megan deserved better. And from that moment on, I decided that our family would create new traditions—ones built on love, respect, and kindness. Because that’s what family should be about.
