My wife, Megan, always poured her heart and soul into preparing our family’s monthly meals, but instead of being thanked, she received harsh and hateful comments from my relatives. After witnessing her weep repeatedly, I devised a covert strategy to discover the underlying cause for their relentless criticism. What I learned destroyed my heart.

Our family has a lengthy history of having monthly dinners, which was passed down from my grandmother, who thought that sharing meals brought her siblings closer together. As my father grew older, he continued this practice with his own family, and my siblings and I looked forward to it each month. These meals were anything but ordinary—Dad would go all out with decorations, and Mom usually cooked at least three handmade dishes.

Now that we’re older, my siblings and I continue the tradition, taking turns hosting. Megan was excited to participate when Megan and I began hosting. She enjoys cooking and finds it therapeutic, so she gradually took over kitchen tasks. The first time she prepared supper for my family, however, things took a bad turn.

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

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

Even my mom chimed in, “Maybe you could use a bit less seasoning next time.”

Megan’s face dropped. I attempted to defend her by praising the cuisine, but the harm had been done. Later that night, I discovered her crying. Despite my promises that her cuisine was excellent, Megan was devastated. She refused to cook for my family again, but I persuaded her to give it another go.

Megan worked hard to perfect her dishes for the following supper, which included my mother’s favorite roasted chicken and Angela’s favorite red sauce pasta. But, once again, their responses were frigid and harsh. Angela grumbled about the pasta, and my mother quietly threw out the chicken, offering to email Megan the recipe. Seeing Megan’s quiet sobbing was awful.

That’s when it hit me: something wasn’t right. I began to think that their critique was unrelated to the cuisine. Determined to learn the truth, I devised a strategy. Megan and I would pretend that I had prepared the next evening, despite the fact that she had done all of the work.

Megan reluctantly consented to the test, and when my family came, I proudly declared that I had prepared supper using my mother’s recipe for chicken. As predicted, they adored it. Angela raved over the spaghetti, calling it the greatest she’d ever eaten, while my parents and brothers applauded the dinner as if it were a five-star feast.

But I knew the truth—this was the same cuisine Megan had previously prepared, the ones they had sharply rejected. What’s the difference? They assumed I had cooked them.

I couldn’t keep the secret anymore. “I need to confess something,” I announced, capturing everyone’s attention. “I did not cook anything. Megan cooked this supper, exactly as she has for months.”

The room became quiet. My mother’s cheeks flushed with shame, and Angela avoided eye contact. They attempted to backtrack, implying that Megan had improved her cuisine, but it was too late. The truth was out.

Later that night, I apologized to Megan for everything she had been through. I was done with these monthly meals. I informed her that if all they wanted to do was embarrass her, we would no again host or attend events. Despite her early complaints about adhering to family traditions, I was adamant. Megan deserved more than their relentless disdain.

My family started raising concerns after we missing a few dinners. I informed them frankly that we were not returning. “You ruined it by constantly criticizing Megan,” I complained to my mother over the phone.

“Are you serious, Brandon? You’re choosing her over us?” she yelled, but I didn’t let her guilt me. My decision was final.

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

Hearing that solidified my choice. I knew I had done the right thing by standing by Megan. She deserved a family that appreciated her for who she was, not one that tore her down.

As we moved forward, I realized that Megan and I could create our own family traditions—ones built on love, respect, and kindness, where every meal felt like home, no matter who cooked it.

Do you think I made the right choice?