Family dinners had always been an important tradition for us, passed down from my grandmother, who believed sharing meals brought everyone closer together. Growing up, my parents continued this tradition, making each monthly dinner a special occasion. As adults, my siblings and I took turns hosting, and when Megan and I started hosting, she was excited to contribute.
Megan loves cooking, and it became her way of taking part in the family tradition. But from the very first dinner she prepared, things went downhill.
“I think it’s a bit bland,” my sister Angela remarked, pushing her plate away.
My brother, Dan, chimed in, “The chicken’s dry.”
Even my mom added, “Maybe you could cut back on the seasoning next time.”
Megan was heartbroken. That night, she cried, despite my attempts to comfort her. I reassured her that her cooking was great, but she felt discouraged. After some convincing, she agreed to try again.
The next dinner, she put even more effort into perfecting the dishes, making my mom’s favorite roasted chicken and Angela’s go-to pasta. But again, the feedback was cold. Angela said the pasta tasted off, and my mom discreetly spit out the chicken, offering Megan her recipe instead. Megan’s silent tears afterward were more than I could bear.
That’s when I realized something was wrong. Their criticism didn’t seem to be about the food. Determined to get to the bottom of it, I came up with a plan. At the next dinner, Megan would still cook, but we’d tell my family that I had made the meal.
Reluctantly, Megan agreed, and when my family arrived, I told them I had prepared everything, including using my mom’s recipe for the chicken. As expected, they loved it. Angela praised the pasta, and my parents raved about how delicious the meal was.
But I couldn’t keep the charade going. I confessed, “Actually, Megan made the whole dinner, just like she has been for months.”
The room went silent. My mom and Angela tried to backtrack, suggesting that maybe Megan had improved, but it was clear what had happened. Their criticism had never been about the food—it was personal.
That night, I apologized to Megan for all the hurt she’d endured. I was done with the monthly dinners. If all my family wanted to do was criticize and belittle her, we wouldn’t be participating anymore. Megan deserved better than that.
When we stopped attending, my family noticed and started asking questions. I told them the truth: we weren’t coming back because they had been unfair to Megan. During a heated phone call, my mom accused me of choosing Megan over the family, but I didn’t waver.
Later, my younger sister, Gloria, confirmed what I had feared all along. “Mom and Angela never really liked Megan,” she admitted. “They felt she wasn’t ‘family enough.’”
That sealed it for me. I knew I had made the right choice by standing by Megan. Together, we started creating our own family traditions—ones built on love, respect, and kindness. Every meal felt like home, no matter who cooked it.
Did I make the right choice?
