After my husband passed away, the house became unbearably quiet. I tried to stay strong, but there were days when I didn’t have the energy — or appetite — to cook a real meal just for myself. Most nights, I made tea and toast and went to bed hungry, telling myself I’d eat properly when I felt less lonely. The only time I cooked a proper dinner was when my son visited during holidays. Those moments made the house feel warm again.

This year was extra special — my son had just gotten married, and he and his wife planned to spend Christmas with me. I was over the moon. I cleaned the house from top to bottom, set the table with our best dishes, and spent the whole day cooking the recipes my family loved. For the first time in months, I felt excited, needed, and full of purpose again.

When they arrived, I hugged them both and proudly served dinner. My son smiled and thanked me, but his wife barely touched her plate. Then, without warning, she stood up and said loudly, “We should’ve just eaten out — this is too unhealthy.” My son looked embarrassed, and my heart sank. I had imagined laughter and warmth… not shame and discomfort at my own table.

Later that night, I sat alone in the quiet kitchen. My son came in quietly, hugged me, and whispered, “Mom, your cooking tastes like home. Don’t ever stop.” I smiled through tears, realizing I didn’t need everyone’s approval to feel valued. I may eat simple meals most nights, but I will always pour love into every dish — because feeding someone isn’t just about food. It’s about belonging, and in my home, love is always on the table.