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.
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