My husband invited his relatives to his birthday party, and I prepared his favorite dishes for them. But Michael’s brother spent the entire evening complaining about how badly I cooked and even sympathized with him “for having such a terrible wife.” ..

My husband invited his relatives to his birthday party, and I prepared his favorite dishes for them. But Michael’s brother spent the entire evening complaining about how badly I cooked and even sympathized with him “for having such a terrible wife.” ..

My husband Michael turned thirty-five at the beginning of June, and he wanted to celebrate his birthday at our country house, without any fuss or fancy restaurants. Just family, a long table under the trees, and simple homemade food.

I spent almost two days cooking. There was a large pot of pilaf cooking outside, I had prepared grape leaves for dolma in advance, made several appetizers, and baked a large cake. I wanted the guests to feel that everything had been made by hand rather than ordered from somewhere.

Among the guests was Michael’s older brother, David. He was the kind of person who considered himself an expert on absolutely everything. This time, he arrived with almost no gift, but with the look of someone who had come to inspect and judge everything.

We set the table in the yard. The air smelled of spices and grilled meat. The guests were smiling, congratulating Michael, and raising their glasses. But David sat down as if it were his own celebration.

He was the first to reach for the pilaf. He poked around in the rice with his fork for a long time, then held up a piece of meat toward the light.

“Michael, you call this pilaf?” he said loudly. “The rice is overcooked, and the meat is dry. Who made this?”

“Emma did,” my husband replied calmly. “I like it.”

His brother complained about the food all evening and even sympathized with Michael “for having such a terrible wife.”

When the dolma was served, he unwrapped one of the grape leaves on his plate and shook his head.

“The leaves are too sour. They should have been soaked properly. The filling is too dense. It’s rare to meet a woman who actually knows how to cook.”

When I brought out the cake, David took one bite and pushed the plate away.

“The cream is too heavy. The layers aren’t crispy enough. Michael, you really got unlucky. A wife should cook so well that guests fall silent from pleasure, not out of politeness.”

That was when I finally lost my patience…..

I stood up, walked over to David, and calmly took his plate away.

“What are you doing?” he asked in surprise.

“I’m taking care of you,” I replied. “You’ve been suffering all evening. The pilaf is terrible, the dolma is wrong, and the cake is too heavy. I simply can’t let you eat something that doesn’t meet your standards.”

David left without getting his plate back.

Ever since then, he either comes already full or eats in silence.