I used to love family gatherings. Growing up, potlucks meant folding tables covered in mismatched tablecloths, laughter in the air, and kids running around while adults swapped recipes. When I married into my husband’s family, I imagined something similar.
But then I met Chloe, my sister-in-law. From the moment we were introduced, I realized she wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed things simply for the joy of them. Everything with her was a performance, a competition, a chance to prove she was better.
And unfortunately, she always made me the target of her comparisons. The first potluck I attended with my husband’s family wasn’t too bad. I brought brownies, nothing fancy, but people seemed to like them.
Chloe, however, raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh, how quaint. Boxed mix?” It was her way of telling me I was beneath her, though she smiled sweetly while she said it. The second potluck, I made a pasta salad from scratch, carefully chopping vegetables and making a vinaigrette.
Chloe wrinkled her nose and told me she’d asked everyone to bring something “elevated.” Apparently, “elevated” meant things like salmon tartare, imported cheeses, and artisanal breads—things that were way out of my budget. She and her husband lived very comfortably, but my husband and I were still paying off student loans and trying to save for a house. By the third potluck, I dreaded the invitation.
This time Chloe sent out a long group text with “suggested” dishes, which included duck pâté, sushi platters, and lobster mac and cheese. She had written, “We want this year to be truly memorable, so please bring something special! No simple dishes this time.
Let’s keep it elegant.”
My stomach twisted as I read it. How was I supposed to afford lobster or pâté? My husband told me to ignore her, to just bring whatever I could.
But I didn’t want to embarrass him. After a long debate with myself, I decided to make a chicken and rice casserole. It was hearty, homemade, and one of my specialties.
I thought maybe, if Chloe looked past her obsession with “delicacies,” she’d see that good food didn’t have to cost a fortune. I spent the night before baking it, layering cheese and chicken carefully, making sure it was seasoned perfectly. I even bought a nicer casserole dish to present it in, hoping that would make it look more “worthy.”
When we arrived at the potluck, Chloe was already fluttering around the kitchen like a queen bee.
She wore a designer dress and had arranged platters of sushi and charcuterie on gleaming trays. People were mingling, sipping wine, and admiring the spread. I walked in with my casserole, still warm, and placed it on the counter.
Chloe swooped in immediately. “Oh, Maddy,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet but her eyes sharp. “What did you bring?”
“Chicken and rice casserole,” I said, forcing a smile.
“It’s my favorite recipe. I thought it would be nice comfort food.”
She looked at the dish as if I’d just set down a microwaved TV dinner. “Oh… how… rustic.” Then she lowered her voice and leaned in close.
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