My wife, Megan, has always poured her heart and soul into preparing our family’s monthly dinners. Her culinary efforts, however, were met with harsh and unkind remarks from my relatives, instead of the appreciation they deserved.

After seeing Megan in tears multiple times, I concocted a plan to uncover the real reason behind these persistent criticisms. What I discovered was truly heartbreaking.

Our family holds a long-standing tradition of hosting monthly dinners, a practice my grandmother cherished as a way to bring siblings closer together. My father kept this tradition alive, and as adults, my siblings and I have continued it, taking turns to host these gatherings.

When Megan and I began hosting, she was thrilled to be part of this tradition. Cooking is her passion, and she views it as a form of therapy, which led her to take the reins in the kitchen. Yet, trouble started the very first time she prepared a meal for my family.

“I knew something tasted off,” my sister Angela commented, pushing away her plate. “It’s just so bland.”

My brother Dan muttered, “Yeah, the chicken’s dry.”

Even my mom chimed in, “Maybe next time, you could use fewer spices.”

Megan’s face fell. I tried to defend her, praising the food, but the damage had already been done. That night, I found her in tears.

Although I reassured her that her cooking was wonderful, Megan was disheartened. She didn’t want to cook for my family again, but I persuaded her to give it another try. At the next dinner, she worked hard to perfect the recipes, preparing my mom’s favorite chicken dish and Angela’s beloved pasta with red sauce. But again, their reactions were cold and critical.

Angela complained the pasta was “horrible,” and my mom discretely spat out the chicken, offering to send Megan her recipe.

Seeing Megan’s silent tears was unbearable. It was then I realized something was off. I began to suspect that the food wasn’t the problem at all.

Determined to uncover the truth, I devised a test. At the following dinner, Megan and I agreed to pretend that I had cooked everything, although she had prepared all the dishes. Reluctantly, Megan agreed to the experiment. When my family arrived, I proudly announced that I had made dinner, even claiming to use my mom’s recipe for the chicken. As expected, they loved everything.

Angela praised the pasta, calling it the best she’d ever eaten, and my parents and siblings lauded the meal as a true feast.

But I knew the truth: it was the same food Megan had made before, the same dishes they had harshly critiqued. The difference? They thought I’d cooked.

I couldn’t keep the secret any longer.

“I need to confess something,” I said, drawing everyone’s attention. “I didn’t make anything. Megan prepared this dinner, just like she has every month.”

A silence fell. My mom’s face turned red with embarrassment, and Angela avoided eye contact. They tried to justify their behavior, suggesting Megan’s skills must have improved, but it was too late. The truth was out.

That night, I apologized to Megan for everything she’d endured. I was determined to put an end to these monthly dinners. I told her we wouldn’t host or attend them anymore if all they did was humiliate her.

Though Megan initially protested, saying we should uphold family traditions, I was resolute in my decision. Megan deserved more than their constant disdain.

After skipping a few dinners, my family began asking questions. I firmly told them we wouldn’t be returning.

“You ruined everything by constantly criticizing Megan,” I told my mom over the phone.

“Seriously, Brandon? You’re choosing her over us?” she exclaimed, but I refused to be swayed by her guilt trips.

My decision was final.

Later, my younger sister, Gloria, confirmed what I had suspected. “Mom and Angela never really appreciated Megan,” she admitted. “They just pretended to because they knew you wanted to marry her. They think she’s too different, not enough ‘family.’”

Upon hearing this, I knew I had made the right choice standing by Megan. She deserved a family that appreciated her for who she is, not one that tore her down.

Looking ahead, I realized that Megan and I could create our own family traditions, grounded in love, respect, and kindness, where every meal would be at home, no matter who cooked it.

Do you think I made the right decision? We’d love to hear your thoughts and comments!