My wife, Megan, has always put her heart and soul into preparing our family’s monthly meals. Instead of receiving thanks, she faced harsh and hurtful comments from my relatives. After seeing her cry numerous times, I came up with a secret plan to uncover the reason for their relentless criticism. What I found out broke my heart.

Our family has a long-standing tradition of monthly dinners, started by my grandmother who believed that sharing meals brought everyone closer. This tradition continued with my father, and my siblings and I eagerly looked forward to it each month. These meals were special—Dad would decorate elaborately, and Mom usually cooked at least three homemade dishes.

As we grew older, my siblings and I carried on this tradition, taking turns hosting. When Megan and I began hosting, she was thrilled to join in. Megan finds cooking therapeutic and gradually took over preparing these meals. The first time she cooked for our family, however, things did not go as planned.

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

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

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

Megan’s face fell, and I tried to defend her cooking, but the damage was done. That night, I found her crying. Despite my reassurances, Megan was heartbroken. She didn’t want to cook for my family again, but I convinced her to try one more time.

Megan worked hard to perfect her dishes for the next dinner, including my mother’s favorite roasted chicken and Angela’s favorite pasta with red sauce. Yet again, their reactions were cold and harsh. Angela complained about the pasta, and my mom discreetly threw away the chicken, offering to email Megan the recipe. Watching Megan cry silently was heartbreaking.

That’s when it hit me: something was off. It seemed their criticism had nothing to do with the food. Determined to find out the truth, I devised a plan. Megan and I would pretend that I had cooked the meal for our next dinner, though she would do all the cooking.

Reluctantly, Megan agreed to the test. When my family arrived, I proudly announced that I had prepared dinner using my mother’s chicken recipe. Just as I suspected, they loved it. Angela raved that the pasta was the best she’d ever had, and my parents and brothers praised the meal as if it were a five-star feast.

But I knew the truth—this was the same food Megan had made before, the food they had harshly criticized. The only difference was, they believed I had cooked it.

I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. “I need to confess something,” I said, getting everyone’s attention. “I didn’t cook anything. Megan made this entire meal, just as she has every time.”

The room fell silent. My mother’s cheeks turned red with shame, and Angela avoided eye contact. They tried to backtrack, suggesting that Megan had improved, but it was too late. The truth was out.

Later that night, I apologized to Megan for everything she had endured. I decided that we would no longer host or attend these monthly dinners, especially if all they wanted to do was belittle her. Megan deserved much better than their relentless disdain.

After missing a few dinners, my family began to raise concerns. I told them bluntly that we weren’t coming back. “You ruined it by constantly criticizing Megan,” I told my mother over the phone.

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

Later, my younger sister, Gloria, confirmed my fears. “Mom and Angela never really liked Megan,” she admitted. “They only pretended 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?