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I Invited All My Relatives to Dinner and Served Each a Beautiful but Empty Painted Plate—Except for My Granddaughter, Who Got a Full Meal.
I invited all the relatives to dinner and served each one a beautiful but empty plate with an intricate design. Only before my granddaughter did I place a full meal.
Elizabeth Worthington cast a heavy, knowing glance around the table.
Her entire family was present. Her son, Sebastian, with his wife, Penelope. Her daughter, Victoria, and her husband, Geoffrey.
And little KatherineKateher granddaughter, slender as a reed, with quiet, attentive eyes that adults often mistook for fear.
The air smelled faintly of mothballs from their stiff formal suits and something colderlike crisp banknotes.
White-gloved waiters silently placed porcelain plates before each guest. Fine bone china, hand-painted with delicate gold swirls against a cobalt rim. Perfectly, deliberately empty.
Only Kates plate held fooda generous portion of roasted salmon, bitter asparagus, and a creamy herb sauce. The girl froze, shoulders hunched, as if the meal itself were an accusation.
Sebastian was the first to break. His perfectly groomed face flushed scarlet.
“Mother, what is this charade?”
Penelope immediately hushed him, placing a bejeweled hand on his forearm.
“Seb, Im sure Elizabeth has a perfectly good explanation.”
“I dont understand,” Victoria murmured, glancing between her empty plate and her mothers inscrutable face. Her husband, Geoffrey, merely curled his lip in disdain.
Elizabeth lifted a heavy crystal glass with deliberate calm.
“This isnt a charade, children. Its dinner. A fair dinner.”
She nodded at Kates plate.
“Eat, Katie. Dont be shy.”
The girl picked up her fork but didnt touch the food. The adults stared at her as if shed stolen the meal from themfrom each of them.
Elizabeth took a small sip of wine.
“I decided it was time for honesty at this table. Tonight, each of you will receive exactly what youve earned.”
She turned to her son.
“Youve always told me fairness and common sense matter most. Heres your common sense, Sebastian. In its purest form.”
Sebastians jaw clenched.
“I wont be part of this farce.”
“Why not?” Elizabeth smiled. “The interesting part is just beginning.”
He shoved his chair back, his expensive suit straining over broad shoulders.
“This is humiliating. Were leaving.”
“Sit down, Sebastian.” Her voice wasnt loud, but it carried the weight of yearsthe same tone shed used when he was a boy asking for allowances as if he were doing her a favor.
He sat.
“Humiliating, Seb,” she said, “is calling me at three in the morning from some shady casino, begging me to cover your debts because Penny mustnt know. Then sitting at this table the next day, boasting about what a successful businessman you are.”
Penelope jerked her hand away as if burned. Her gaze turned sharp as broken glass.
“Your plate is empty because youve always eaten from mine,” Elizabeth continued. “You take but never return. Your entire life is a loan you never intend to repay.”
She shifted her attention to Penelope, who instantly arranged her face into polite concern.
“Elizabeth, were so grateful for all youve”
“Your gratitude, Penny, has a price tag. Your visits always coincided with new collections at Harrods. That necklace youre hiding under your hair? A remarkable coincidence, wouldnt you say?”
Penelopes mask cracked.
Elizabeth turned to Victoria, who was already cryingsilent tears splashing onto the pristine tablecloth.
“Mother, why? What have I done?”
“Nothing, darling. Absolutely nothing to me. And nothing for me.”
She let the words sink in.
“When I had pneumonia last month, your assistant sent flowers. Lovely ones. Expensive. With a printed cardyou couldnt even sign it yourself. I called you that evening. Five times. You were too busy at your charity gala, I suppose, giving speeches on compassion.”
Victoria sobbed. Geoffrey finally spoke, hand on her shoulder.
“This has gone too far. Youve no right to speak to your daughter this way.”
“And you, Geoffrey,” Elizabeths stare pinned him, “have the right? The man who, in five years of marriage, still calls me Elizabeth Wilson instead of Worthington? To you, Im just an inconvenient bank account.”
Geoffrey leaned back, arms crossed, disdain barely concealed.
All the while, Kate sat before her untouched meal. The salmon cooled. The sauce congealed. She didnt dare look up.
“But Kate” Elizabeths voice softened for the first time. “Kates plate is full because shes the only one who didnt come here with an outstretched hand.”
She looked at her granddaughter.
“Last week, she visited me. For no reason. Brought me this.”
From her pocket, Elizabeth drew a tarnished broocha little enamel lily, its pin bent.
“She found it at a flea market. Spent all her pocket money. Said it reminded her of the flowers on my old dress in that photograph.”
She surveyed her childrens stony faces.
“Youve all waited for me to fill your plates. She came and filled mine. Eat, dear. Youve earned it.”
Geoffrey was the first to recover. He smirked.
“How touching. A real theatrical moment. Are you saying your entire fortune now hinges on the price of this trinket?”
“My fortune hinges on my judgment, Geoffrey. Yours, however, seems entirely dependent on mine.”
“Mother, youve lost your mind!” Sebastian exploded. “Youve orchestrated this circus to humiliate us in front ofa child! Youre manipulating us!”
“Im holding up a mirror, Seb. You just dont like the reflection.”
Kate watched themthe fear in her uncles eyes, the calculation in Penelopes, the self-pity in her mothers, the rage in her fathers.
They werent hearing words. They were hearing the rustle of money slipping through their fingers.
She understood now. The cruel game. And the weapon her grandmother had given her.
Victoria wiped her tears. “Katie, say something. Tell Grandmother this isnt right.”
They waitedfor her to cry, to beg, to refuse the meal in their favor. To play her usual role: quiet, convenient, invisible.
Kate lifted her head. Her eyes were clear. She looked not at her grandmother, but at her platethe cold salmon, the stiffened sauce.
Then she picked up her knife and fork.
Carefully, methodically, she divided the salmon into four equal portions. She separated the asparagus.
Then she stood. Her chair made no sound.
She carried her plate first to Sebastian, placing a portion on his empty china. Then to Penelope. Then Geoffrey. The last went to her mother.
Her own plate was now empty.
She wasnt sharing food. She was sharing dignity.
She returned to her seat but didnt sit.
“Thank you for dinner, Grandmother,” she said softly, yet every word rang clear. “But Im not hungry.”
Elizabeth looked at her, and for the first time that evening, there was no ice in her gaze. Only pride. The lesson had been learned deeper than shed hoped.
Silence gripped the table. The salmon on four plates sat like evidence. An accusation served with cream sauce. No one dared touch it.
Penelope broke first. She rose gracefully, disdain curling her lip.
“Gambling debts, Seb? How vulgar.”
She left without a backward glance, each step a whip crack to Sebastians pride.
Geoffrey snorted.
“Well, Vicky? Your mothers made fools of us, and your daughter just helped. Charming family.”
He tossed his napkin down.
“Ill be in the car.”
Sebastian and Victoria sat across from one anothersiblings, strangers sharing a name. Humbled. Exposed.
Finally, Sebastian glared at his mother.
“Happy? Youve destroyed everything.”
“I destroyed nothing, Seb. I only removed the props. The house was already rotten. It collapsed on its own.”
He stalked out, ignoring Kate entirely. Victoria lingered, staring at her portion of salmon.
“Mother I”
“Go, Vicky,” Elizabeth said gently. “Your husbands waiting.”
Victoria drifted away like a sleepwalker.
When the footsteps faded, Elizabeth signaled a waiter.
“Clear this, please. And bring dessert. Two crème brûlées.”
She looked at Kate, still standing.
“Sit, dear.”
Kate obeyed. Her fear had melted into calm understanding.
“Theyll hate me now,” she whispered.
“No,” Elizabeth said, covering the girls small hand with her own. “Theyll fear you. Thats far better than their love.”
She paused, meeting Kates gaze.
“Tonight, you showed them a plate isnt just for taking. Its for giving, too. Only the strong can afford that.”
The waiter set down two desserts, their
You Drive Me Up the Wall!… I Can’t Eat Right, Can’t Dress Right, Can’t Do Anything Right! — Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. — You can’t do anything!… Can’t even earn proper money!… We never get any help from you around the house!… — Marina burst into tears, — …And there are no children…, — she whispered. Belka — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten, perched atop the wardrobe, silently witnessed yet another “family tragedy”. She knew, she could sense, that Mum and Dad truly loved each other… But she didn’t understand why they said such cruel words that hurt everyone. Mum, sobbing, locked herself in the bedroom as Dad lit one cigarette after another. Belka, seeing her family falling apart, thought, “There must be happiness in this house… and happiness means children… we need to find some children…” Belka couldn’t have kittens herself — she’d been spayed years ago, and as for Mum… the doctors said she could, but something just wouldn’t work out… The next morning, after her humans left for work, Belka, for the very first time, slipped out the window to visit her neighbour Pawsy — for advice. — Why would you want kids? — scoffed Pawsy. — Ours come with children, and I have to hide from them… they smear lipstick on your face or squeeze you until you can’t breathe! Belka sighed: — We just need normal children… If only we could find some… — Hmmm… That street cat Molly’s had a litter… five of them… — mused Pawsy. — Take your pick… Taking her chances, Belka leapt balcony to balcony to the street. Shivering nervously, she squeezed through the railings of a basement window and called out: — Molly, could you come out for a minute, please… From deep within came desperate squeaks. Carefully crawling through, eyes darting in fear, Belka began to cry. Under the radiator, on the hard gravel, lay five tiny, sightless kittens, nudging the air and wailing for their mum. One sniff told her: Molly hadn’t been back for at least three days. The babies were starving. Fighting tears, Belka gently carried each kitten to the entrance. Trying to calm her hungry, squeaking brood, Belka lay down beside them, anxiously watching the end of the yard, waiting for Mum and Dad. Pavel, silent as he met Marina after work, brought them home. As they reached the doorway, they froze — there was their Belka, (who had never set paw on the street alone), and five multicoloured kittens clambering to nurse from her. — What on earth? — Pavel was stunned. — A miracle…, — echoed Marina, and together they scooped up the cat and kittens and rushed inside… Watching Belka purr happily in a box with her new babies, Pavel asked: — But what do we do with them? — I’ll feed them with a dropper… once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll call my friends…, — Marina whispered. Three months later, still stunned by the turn of events, Marina sat stroking her “cat pack” and murmured, over and over: — Things like this just don’t happen… this just doesn’t happen… Then, she and Pavel broke down in happy tears; he swept her into his arms, and they both laughed and chattered at once: — I’m glad I finished building the house! — Perfect for a child to get some fresh air! — And let the kittens run in the garden! — There’ll be room for everyone! — I love you! — And I love you even more! Wise Belka brushed away a tear — life, it seemed, was finally coming together…
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I Called Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” — She Turned and Waved Her Shovel Cheerfully: “I’m Doing This for You Lazybones!” — And the Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Garden Gate Without Tears Every Time I See That Pathway, My Heart Clenches Like Someone’s Gripped It in Their Fist. I Took That Photo on the Second of January… I Only Stopped When I Noticed Her Footprints in the Snow—Now That Photo Is All I Have Left of Those Days… We’d Spent New Year Together, Just as Always: Mum in Her Favourite Apron I Gave Her at School, the Smell of Fried Burgers, Family Jokes, Dad Arriving with an Enormous Tree, All of Us Decorating, Singing Old Christmas Songs, Laughing Until We Cried… On 2nd January, I Looked Out to See Mum Clearing a Perfect Pathway from the Gate to Our Door, Her Scarf Tied Up, Red-cheeked, Shovelling Snow So We Wouldn’t Have to Struggle Through the Drifts. “It’s for You, My Lazy Lot—Go Put the Kettle On,” She Called, Smiling. That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Voice So Cheerful. The Next Day She Was Gone, So Suddenly It Didn’t Seem Real. Only Her Little Footprints Remain—Marks in the Snow, and In My Heart.
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THE MOTHER-IN-LAW Anna Petrovna sat in the kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, and each time she remembered too late: the froth would rise and spill over, and she’d wipe the stovetop in irritation. In those moments, she realized: it wasn’t about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, it was as if everything in the family had gone off the rails. Her daughter grew weary, lost weight, and spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, and sometimes retreated straight to the bedroom. Anna Petrovna noticed all this and thought: how could anyone leave a woman alone like this? She spoke up—first gently, then with more edge. At first to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she began to notice a strange thing: after her words, things in the house didn’t get lighter—they got heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew more withdrawn, and she herself went home with the feeling she’d once again done the wrong thing. That day, she went to the vicar not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. ‘I suppose I’m just a bad person,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I do everything wrong.’ The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He put down his pen. ‘Why do you think that?’ Anna Petrovna shrugged. ‘I wanted to help. But it seems all I do is make everyone angry.’ He looked at her kindly, without judgment. ‘You’re not a bad person. You’re tired. And very anxious.’ She sighed. That felt like the truth. ‘I’m scared for my daughter,’ she said. ‘She’s so different after giving birth. And him…’ she waved a hand. ‘It’s like he doesn’t even notice.’ ‘And do you notice what he does?’ asked the vicar. Anna Petrovna thought. She remembered last week, when he quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one noticed. Or on Sunday, when he took the pram out for a walk, even though it was clear he just wanted to lie down and sleep. ‘He does things… I think,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But not the way he should.’ ‘And what is “the way he should”?’ asked the vicar calmly. Anna Petrovna wanted to answer right away, but suddenly realized she didn’t know. In her head: more, more often, more attentively. But specifically what, she couldn’t say. ‘I just want it to be easier for her,’ she said. ‘Then say that,’ the vicar responded gently. ‘But say it to yourself, not to him.’ She looked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that right now, you aren’t fighting for your daughter—you’re fighting with her husband. And fighting means tension. Everyone gets tired of that. You. Them.’ Anna Petrovna was silent for a long time. Then she asked: ‘So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against anyone, but for someone.’ On the way home, she thought about this. Remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t lecture her but just sat beside her when she cried. Why was it different now? The next day she showed up without warning. Brought soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law awkward. ‘I won’t stay long,’ Anna Petrovna said. ‘Just came to help.’ She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without saying a word about how hard things must be or how they ought to live. A week later, she came again. And a week after that. She still saw her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she began to notice other things too: how carefully he lifted the youngest, how he tucked a blanket around her daughter at night, thinking no one saw. One day, she couldn’t help herself and asked him in the kitchen: ‘Is it hard for you right now?’ He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked him that. ‘It’s hard,’ he said after a pause. ‘Really hard.’ And that was it. But after that, something sharp disappeared from the air between them. Anna Petrovna realized: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what needed to change was herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to get angry. But slowly, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—just quieter. Without the constant strain. One day her daughter said: ‘Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.’ Anna Petrovna thought about those words for a long time. She realized something simple: peace isn’t when someone admits they’re wrong. It’s when someone is the first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That wish didn’t go away. But living alongside it was something more important: wanting peace in the family. And every time the old feelings came up—indignation, bitterness, the urge to say something sharp—she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want life to be easier for them? The answer almost always told her what to do next.
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The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family headed by the manager of the local factory workshop, an important business in a quiet English market town. “Why do you think they chose to live in these old red-brick flats?” wondered retired Mrs. Nina Andrews aloud to her friends. “With his connections, surely they could have landed a place in a new development.” “Don’t judge by your own standards, Mum,” chimed in her thirty-year-old unmarried daughter Anna, sporting bright makeup. “Why would they want something new when these Victorian terraces have high ceilings, grand halls, spacious rooms, and a massive balcony—like in a country house. Besides, they got a phone line the very first week—not everyone in our block even has a phone; just three out of the nine flats!” “You’re always gabbing on the phone!” scolded her mother. “You’re a nuisance to the neighbours. And mind you don’t start pestering the new lot—they’re proper and busy people.” “Oh, they’re not so serious! They’re young, and they have a little girl—nine years old, Natasha,” Anna replied, giving her mum a wounded look. “They’re practically my age, just five years older at most.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and cheerful—Lydia worked as the school librarian, Ivan had been at the factory for ten years. Anna became the neighbourhood news source, chatting with the ladies in the courtyard each evening as her mum listened in. “How do you already know all this, Anna?” they would tease. “Oh, I pop in to use their phone! Unlike some people, they actually let me,” Anna retorted, referencing the times neighbours refused to open their door, suspecting she’d yak away for ages to her girlfriends. So Anna befriended the newcomers and made herself at home, often calling friends and colleagues for long chats, showing up in new outfits or cosy dressing gowns, clearly hoping to grow close to the family. One day, she noticed Ivan pointedly closing the lounge door when she entered to use the phone. The same thing happened again and again. Anna would flash a smile at Lydia and peek into the kitchen to thank her after her calls, but Lydia would just nod and politely ask her to shut the door on her way out. “I can’t—my hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would explain. “Our lock snaps shut on its own—it’s French.” “Oh, what are you baking now? More pastries? You always have something fresh coming out of the oven… I never learnt to bake,” Anna gushed. “Just making some sweet cheese buns for breakfast, but I won’t have time in the morning—that’s why I’m baking now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna grimaced and left, annoyed her friendship wasn’t warming up. Later that evening, Ivan said, “Listen, Lyds, I know it’s awkward to refuse her, but our phone is permanently tied up every evening and my mates can’t get through. It’s not fair.” “Yes, she’s gotten a bit too comfortable, coming in as if she lives here and gossiping away,” Lydia agreed. That same night, Anna showed up again—dressed to the nines, made up, and perched on the hallway chair chatting away. After ten minutes, Lydia asked, “Anna, will you be long? We’re expecting a call.” Anna nodded and hung up but pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and grinned, “I brought treats! Come on, let’s have tea—my treat for getting to know you.” She laid the chocolate on the kitchen table, but Lydia hesitated. “No, please—take it away. Natasha has allergies; she can’t have sweets. In our house, chocolate is a strict no-go.” “What? But I was just being kind,” Anna blushed, stung. “No need for grateful gifts, and do us a favour: don’t come by so often—unless it’s for a real emergency, the doctor or fire brigade. That’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we’d understand. But just for chatting… best not,” Lydia managed politely. Anna took her chocolate and left without a word, feeling slighted, and convinced herself Lydia must be jealous of her youth or charm. “She knows I’m younger, prettier—that’s why she snubbed me,” Anna griped to her mum. “I only wanted to be friendly, but she wouldn’t even pour me a cup of tea—and I brought my own chocolate.” “Silly girl,” Mrs. Andrews sighed. “You shouldn’t force your way into someone else’s home. If they don’t want your calls, that’s their right. They’re a decent family, not a public drop-in centre, and you were firmly shown the door. Don’t make it about jealousy—find yourself a husband and get your own phone, then let your neighbours come calling on you!” Anna’s last attempt at getting close was to pop round with a notebook to ask Lydia for her cheese bun recipe. “Could you give me your sweet cheese bun recipe? I really should learn…” “Better ask your mum,” Lydia replied, surprised. “Our mums know lots—I always just mix by eye, I don’t use strict measures. My hands know what to do. Sorry, I’d really better dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home. She knew her mum’s battered old recipe book was in the kitchen, full of handwritten gems—salads, pies, even fish terrine. Half the book was devoted to cakes and baking. But Anna didn’t fancy baking, and her mum had long since given it up due to her blood pressure. Still, Anna retrieved the notebook, leafed through indifferently, then found the recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you actually planning on baking?” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Why does that surprise you?” Anna snapped the book shut. “Has something happened with Slava? I thought you’d parted, just like all your other beaus.” “Why would you think that? He’ll come running back whenever I want,” Anna grumbled. “Well, then why not want it?” her mother chuckled. “And what recipe are you after? I’ll help if you like.” “I can manage,” Anna replied quickly. A few days later, when her mum got back from her evening walk, the smell of baking greeted her. “Good Lord, what’s that? Pies baking? You must really be in love,” her mother exclaimed. “Don’t shout so the whole block hears! Come in and have a taste. They’re cheese buns, traditional ones.” The kettle steamed, the table was set, and a plate of golden cheese buns awaited. “You’ve still got it,” her mum said. “We haven’t baked together in ages and I thought you’d forgotten—but you did it. Well done.” “Don’t just say that—tell me honestly. Are they all right?” “You’ve got a tongue, haven’t you? Try one!” her mum laughed. Anna flashed back to her Dad—those were his words: “It’s edible.” The highest praise. “Right then, I’ll invite Slava round for tea soon—serve him these. Think he’ll like them?” “He’ll love them! I won your Dad by baking these—he was besotted with both the buns and me,” her mum grinned. “Keep baking and invite him. I’ll go watch telly at the neighbour’s—good to see you finally have your priorities straight. You won’t win hearts just by dressing up and curling your hair.” Soon, Slava became a regular visitor. The rows faded, Anna spent more time in the kitchen, with Slava helping and their laughter echoing through the flat. When Anna told her mum they’d registered for marriage, Mrs. Andrews nearly wept with joy. Anna blossomed, slimming down before the wedding. Slava teased, “You’ve stopped baking! Will you make a cake for our wedding at least?” For the home wedding, Anna, her mother, and aunt spent two days preparing festive dishes, though there’d only be about twenty guests—all family. The newlyweds moved into their own big room in the three-bedroom flat. That year, telephones were finally installed for all households. Anna, now content, called everyone at first, but always kept her chats short: “Sorry, Rita, got to dash—my dough’s rising and Slava’s heading home. Bye!” She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough was lifting under its own yeasty cloud. Anna was expecting, her maternity leave just a month away, but the young wife never rested—she cooked, she baked, keeping her husband happy. She adored cheese buns, especially homemade, and so did he—after all, what could be sweeter than a home filled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of baking?
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