For generations, my family has carried on the tradition of monthly dinners. What began with my grandmother grew into something that united cousins, siblings, and even extended relatives. When my wife Megan joined the tradition, she embraced it with joy, often cooking entire meals with love and care. But instead of gratitude, she was met with harsh words. “Too bland,” “too dry,” “not like Mom’s recipe,” they would say. I could see how much it hurt her, though she stayed quiet.
After one particularly painful night, I found her crying, vowing never to cook for them again. I knew her meals were wonderful—I had tasted them myself countless times. That’s when I decided to uncover the truth. At our next dinner, Megan cooked her usual dishes, but we told my family that I had prepared everything.
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