My Relatives Started Complaining about My Wifes Meals at Our Monthly Family Dinners, So We Decided to Secretly Test Them

My wife Megan poured her heart into our family’s monthly dinners, but all she received in return were cruel comments from my relatives. After seeing her tears one too many times, I devised a secret plan to uncover the truth. What I found left me heartbroken.

Monthly family dinners had always been a cherished tradition in my family, a legacy passed down from my grandmother. Growing up, these gatherings were magical, filled with laughter, great food, and bonding time with cousins. My parents kept the tradition alive, hosting lavish dinners complete with home-cooked meals and even the occasional treat like pizza for us kids.

When my siblings and I grew up, we adopted the custom, taking turns hosting the dinners. My wife, Megan, was enthusiastic about being part of this tradition, even before we were married. She loved the idea of family togetherness and wanted to contribute by cooking the meals herself.

“You know I find cooking therapeutic, babe,” Megan reassured me. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything.”

That’s just who Megan is—kind, generous, and eager to please.

The first dinner she cooked started with such promise but ended painfully. As soon as my family found out Megan had prepared the meal, the criticisms began.

“I knew it!” Angela, my older sister, declared dramatically. “The food tastes so… bland.”

“Why is the chicken so dry?” Dan, my brother, added.

Even my mom chimed in. “Maybe use less seasoning next time.”

Megan’s face fell, her effort and enthusiasm crushed in an instant. I tried to cheer her up, praising her cooking and enlisting my younger brother, David, to back me up. But the damage was done. Later that night, I found her crying in our bedroom.

“They hated it,” she sobbed. “Why am I even trying?”

I hugged her tightly, assuring her the food was great and reminding her not to take their comments to heart. Still, it hurt me to see her so discouraged. I convinced her to try again, thinking it might have been an off night. But the pattern repeated.

At the next dinner, Megan went all out, preparing roasted chicken (my mom’s favorite) and red sauce pasta (Angela’s favorite). Once again, the insults flew.

“This isn’t roasted chicken,” my mom said, discreetly spitting a bite into her napkin. “I’ll send you my recipe.”

Angela sneered at the pasta. “This tastes awful. Never make this again.”

Megan broke down in the kitchen while the rest of my family laughed and chatted as if their words hadn’t just shattered her. Later, as I comforted her, she voiced something that struck a chord.

“Do you think they’re doing this on purpose?” she asked.

The idea gnawed at me. Could my family be criticizing her deliberately? To find out, I devised a plan. At the next dinner we hosted, Megan would cook again, but we would tell my family I had prepared the meal.

Megan was hesitant at first, fearing another round of humiliation, but she eventually agreed. She cooked the same dishes as before—roasted chicken and red sauce pasta—and I proudly announced, “I cooked everything today. Hope you all enjoy it.”

What happened next confirmed our suspicions.

“This is the best pasta I’ve ever had!” Angela gushed. “You’re a natural, Brandon!”

“Finally, a decent meal,” my dad chimed in.

“I didn’t know you could cook like this!” Dan added, piling his plate high.

The very dishes they had ridiculed just weeks ago were now the talk of the night—all because they thought I had made them. Megan and I exchanged a knowing look. The truth was undeniable.

Once everyone had finished eating, I stood up and addressed them. “I have a confession to make. I didn’t cook this dinner. Megan did. The same Megan who has been cooking for you all these months, the same dishes you’ve insulted time and again.”

Silence fell over the room. My mom’s face flushed with embarrassment, Angela avoided eye contact, and my dad tried to salvage the moment with a weak excuse.

“Well… maybe she’s improved,” he muttered.

The damage was done. Their true colors were clear, and Megan and I decided it was time to prioritize our happiness over their opinions. That night, I apologized to Megan for putting her through such pain.

“We’re done with these dinners,” I said firmly. “I won’t let them treat you like this anymore.”

“But it’s your family’s tradition,” she replied hesitantly.

“I don’t care about tradition if it means disrespecting you,” I said.

We stopped attending the monthly dinners, and after a couple of months, my family began questioning our absence. When my mom called, I didn’t hold back.

“You’ve ruined this tradition by constantly humiliating Megan,” I told her. “We’re not coming back.”

“Brandon, you’re letting her come between us!” she snapped.

I hung up, unwilling to entertain her excuses. Later, my youngest sister, Gloria, admitted the truth.

“Mom and Angela never liked Megan,” she confessed. “They thought she didn’t fit in. They’ve been picking on her because they don’t think she’s ‘family enough.’”

Hearing this confirmed I had made the right choice. Megan deserved better, and I was determined to create a family environment where she felt loved and respected.

From then on, we focused on building our own traditions, filled with kindness, laughter, and support. Those dinners weren’t about pleasing others—they were about celebrating the love we shared as a family.

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