My family has a monthly dinner tradition started by my grandmother, meant to bring us together. When I married Megan, I wanted her to share that magic. At first, I cooked; then she offered to take over. But her meals were met with harsh criticism—“bland,” “dry,” and “no seasoning.” Megan’s smile broke, and later she cried, feeling rejected.

Despite the hurt, I convinced her to try again, making my mom’s favorite recipes. The attacks continued. Finally, I stood up for her: “Be kind or be quiet.” The next dinner, Megan cooked the same meal, but I claimed credit. Suddenly, the praise poured in. Megan met my eyes with a tired nod—there it was.

We stopped attending family dinners. Calls came, but I refused. My sister Gloria confided that Megan was never accepted; it was never about the food—it was about her.

So we built our own tradition: Sunday pancakes with friends, game nights with siblings, and laughter filling the house. My wife cooks with love, and now she eats in peace. Between a broken tradition and the person beside me, there’s no contest.