My wife, Megan, always poured her heart into cooking for our family’s monthly dinners, but each time, she faced cruel criticism from my relatives. After witnessing her tears again and again, I decided to test their true intentions.
At the next dinner, we told my family that I had cooked, though Megan prepared the same dishes they had previously criticized. This time, my sister Angela raved, “This is the best pasta I’ve ever tasted!” Everyone praised the meal, unaware that Megan had cooked everything. I finally revealed the truth, saying, “Megan made all of this, just like before.” The room went silent.
Their harshness wasn’t about the food—it was personal. Later, my younger sister Gloria confirmed my suspicions, telling me, “Mom and Angela never approved of Megan. They think she’s too different and not ‘family enough.’”
That night, I made a decision. I turned to Megan and said, “We’re done with these monthly dinners.” We stopped attending, and after a couple of months, my family began asking questions. When confronted, I told my mom, “You ruined everything by humiliating my wife.”
Despite their protests, I stood firm. I realized that keeping up these dinners wasn’t worth the constant insults Megan endured. Our little family, built on love and respect, mattered more than outdated traditions or pleasing those who didn’t truly accept her.
From that moment on, I knew we would create our own traditions—ones filled with kindness, where every meal felt like home, no matter who cooked it.