My wife Megan poured her heart into our family’s monthly dinners, but all she ever received were cruel comments from my relatives. After watching her cry one too many times, I decided to set up a secret test to uncover the real reason behind their constant criticism. What I found left me heartbroken.
Our family has a long-standing tradition of hosting monthly dinners, one that dates back to when my dad was a kid. My grandmother started it by gathering her siblings over shared meals, which strengthened their bond.
As Dad and his siblings grew older, they carried on the tradition, taking turns inviting one another for dinner every month. I still remember how my siblings and I used to look forward to those evenings, excited to meet our cousins and enjoy great food together.
These weren’t just ordinary family dinners either. Dad went all out with decorations, while Mom made sure there were always at least three dishes on the table.
I even remember one time when Dad ordered pizza just for us kids—it turned into one of the best nights ever.
Now that my siblings and I are grown, we’ve continued the tradition ourselves.
A few months ago, my older sister Angela invited us over and made the most delicious chicken pie I’ve ever had! Even my wife, Megan, loved it.
Since we take turns hosting, I’ve invited my siblings, their spouses, and their kids to our place multiple times. I have two older siblings, Dan and Angela, and two younger ones, David and Gloria.
When everyone shows up with their families, there are usually about thirteen or fourteen of us. Occasionally, my Aunt Martha joins too—she’s always been close to us.
Megan was excited to take part in this tradition from the beginning, even before we were married. At first, I did the cooking, but she took over after a while.
“You know I find cooking very therapeutic, babe,” she reassured me. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything.”
That’s just who Megan is—understanding, caring, and eager to help.
I thought everything would go smoothly until the day we hosted dinner and revealed that Megan had prepared the food.
“I knew it!” Angela exclaimed. “I was wondering why the food tastes so off today. It’s just… so bland!”
“I agree,” Dan muttered. “Why is the chicken so dry?”
“Maybe use less seasoning next time,” Mom added.
I’ll never forget the look on Megan’s face that day. It broke my heart to see her so hurt after all the effort she’d put in.
“I think the chicken is perfect!” I said, trying to cheer her up. “What do you think, David?”
“Yeah, it’s really nice,” David smiled at Megan. “It’s perfect!”
“Shouldn’t you cook what everyone likes?” Aunt Martha asked Megan. “That way, no one will complain next time.”
“Yeah, I…” Megan started, her voice trembling, almost on the verge of tears. “I’ll cook something else next time.”
What’s wrong with them? I thought. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the chicken she’d made. Honestly, it was even better than what I’d cooked recently.
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 sobbed. “Everyone else hated it. I won’t cook for them again.”
“Hey, don’t let them get you down,” I said, looking into her eyes. “You’re strong, remember?”
That night, I convinced Megan to cook for my family again at the next dinner—but that turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life.
Megan prepared my mom’s favorite roasted chicken with a side of vegetables and made the red sauce pasta that Angela loved. She even perfected her recipe by watching several YouTube videos, hoping everyone would finally enjoy her food.
But when dinner came, Mom and Angela delivered the meanest remarks I could imagine. I couldn’t believe my ears because the food was phenomenal.
“I don’t think you should ever make this pasta again, Meg,” Angela said, shaking her head. “It tastes awful.”
“I’ll send you my recipe tonight,” Mom added, discreetly spitting out a piece of chicken. “This isn’t what I’d call roasted chicken.”
Megan just stared at them in silence before walking into the kitchen. I followed her, knowing she was already in tears.
“Babe, I loved the food,” I said softly, resting my hand on her shoulder. “I don’t get why Mom and Angela are acting this way.”
“Your sister said the pasta tastes bad!” Megan whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I made the one dish she loves most, and she doesn’t even like it. What am I supposed to do?”
Then I heard Mom’s voice from the living room—low but sharp enough to send a wave of anger through me.
“She’s not even trying,” Mom said quietly.
“Didn’t she learn from last time?” my father added.
That was it. I rushed back to the dining room, unable to hold back anymore.
“Can’t you guys be nice to her? What’s with all this drama?” I demanded. “Why can’t you appreciate her even a little? She works so hard to cook for you!”
“Really?” Angela raised an eyebrow. “Then why can’t she ever get anything right?”
“If she cooked better, we wouldn’t have to complain,” Mom scoffed. “We’re not asking for gourmet food—just something edible.”
I realized arguing was useless, so I went back to the kitchen. Megan stood there with her arms folded, having heard everything.
“They never complained when you cooked,” she said bitterly. “Are they doing this on purpose?”
Her words made me stop cold. Could my family really be criticizing her intentionally?
When it was our turn to host again a few weeks later, I came up with a plan. I suggested we secretly test them. We’d pretend I was the one who cooked everything while Megan actually did all the work.
At first, she refused. She didn’t want to be humiliated again. But after I insisted, she agreed. I was determined to uncover the truth.
Megan made the exact same dishes again—red sauce pasta and roasted chicken.
“I cooked everything today,” I announced as everyone sat down for dinner. “I used your recipe for the chicken, Mom. I’m sure you’ll love it.”
And sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.
Mom couldn’t stop praising the chicken. Dad, Angela, Dan, and even Aunt Martha raved about the meal.
“This is the best pasta I’ve ever tasted!” Angela said, smacking her lips. “I love it, Brandon!”
“I’m glad you took over again!” Dad said proudly.
“Yeah, man,” Dan added, grinning. “Didn’t know my brother could cook this well!”
I glanced at Megan, and we both knew exactly what was going on. The food they were praising was the same food they’d trashed just a few dinners ago. The only difference was they thought I’d made it.
David and Gloria struggled to hold back their laughter—they knew the truth. Meanwhile, everyone else ate as if it were the best meal they’d ever had.
“Okay, I have to confess something,” I said finally, drawing everyone’s attention. “But before I do, just to confirm—you all loved the food, right?”
They all nodded eagerly.
“Well,” I said, smiling faintly, “I didn’t cook anything. This was all Megan’s magic. She made everything, just like she has been for months.”
The room went dead silent.
Mom’s face flushed crimson with embarrassment, and Angela suddenly found her drink very interesting. Dad tried to smooth things over: “Well… I mean… maybe she’s gotten better at cooking?”
They all tried to backtrack, but the damage was already done. Megan and I finally understood what had been happening all along.
Later that night, as we sat together in our bedroom, I turned to her.
“I’m done with these monthly dinners,” I said firmly. “That was the last one we hosted—and the last one we’ll attend. I won’t be part of something that only humiliates you.”
“But that’s part of your family’s tradition,” Megan said softly. “Maybe you should still go.”
“I don’t care about tradition anymore,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “They disrespected you, and I won’t stand for it.”
We skipped the next dinners. After two months, my parents and siblings started asking questions. I told them straight—we weren’t coming back.
“You guys ruined everything by humiliating my wife,” I told Mom one day.
“Seriously, Brandon? You can’t do this!” she shouted over the phone. “You’re ruining your relationship with us because of her!”
I hung up, realizing there was no point arguing anymore. Everything finally made sense. Their constant criticism wasn’t about the food—it was about Megan.
Gloria later confirmed it.
“Mom and Angela have always been like that,” she admitted. “They pretended to like Megan because you wanted to marry her, but they never really approved. They think she’s too different—not ‘family enough.’”
Gloria’s words confirmed what I’d feared all along. I’d made the right choice standing by Megan. She deserved far better than a family that couldn’t appreciate her for who she was.
As time passed, I realized our little family mattered most—the love and respect we shared were far more important than outdated traditions or hurtful opinions.
So, Megan and I decided to create our own traditions, ones built on kindness and respect, where every meal felt like home—no matter who cooked it.
Do you think I did the right thing?
Source: amomama.com
Note: This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.