The Things We Don’t Say at Family Dinners

The Things We Don’t Say at Family Dinners

By Hasnain Shah

The clatter of forks and the murmur of conversation always marked the beginning of our family dinners. Someone would pass the bread basket, glasses would be filled, and my father would tell a story loud enough to make my grandmother laugh. On the surface, it looked like harmony—a well-rehearsed performance we had been practicing for years.

But even as a child, I sensed another rhythm beneath the surface. A second performance unfolded in the pauses, the quick glances, the way a sentence trailed off before it reached the truth. It was as though the meal carried two layers: the one we could taste, and the one we could never name.

At first, I thought dinners were about food. The roast chicken steaming on its platter, the mashed potatoes whipped smooth, the cherry pie cooling by the window. But as I grew older, trading my plastic cup for a glass of wine, I realized the food was only a prop. The real work of dinner was in holding ourselves together.

My mother, for example, never admitted how tired she was. The dark circles under her eyes said enough, but she kept smiling, kept passing the butter, kept laughing at my father’s jokes. My father never confessed how much he hated his job, though his stories about office politics always carried an edge, like a knife pressed just a little too hard against the table.

We—the children—learned our parts quickly. My brother avoided mentioning the girl he loved, because he knew she wasn’t the girl they wanted for him. I avoided telling them how suffocating it felt to be “the reliable one.” Instead, we shared safe stories about school and sports, pretending that was the whole truth of our lives.

Even my grandmother followed the script. She would sit with her napkin folded neatly on her lap, asking gentle questions about our days. She never spoke about the silence of her house since my grandfather died, and we never asked. It was easier that way—for her, and maybe for us too.

The things we left unsaid were not small. They were the truths that mattered most: disappointments, longings, regrets. But the table had rules. Protect the meal. Protect the ritual. Protect the illusion.

As I got older, I began to wonder why. Why do we guard our truths so carefully, even from the people who share our blood? Maybe because the dinner table is fragile. To drop certain truths there would feel like shattering a porcelain dish—loud, messy, impossible to repair.

And yet, sometimes I imagine what it would be like if we broke the pattern. What if my mother admitted she was exhausted instead of offering another slice of pie? What if my father spoke his regrets without turning them into a joke? What if my brother confessed his love, and I admitted I was afraid of letting everyone down?

Would we crumble? Or would we, at last, see each other as we really are?

Family dinners, I’ve learned, are not just about food. They are about connection. And yet they are also the places where we hide the most. We hug at the door when it’s over, promising to do this more often, and we mean it. But as I drive home, I carry the same questions every time: What would happen if we trusted our bond enough to tell the truth?

One day, I tell myself, I’ll find out. One day, I’ll be brave enough to speak the words that hang in the air, waiting to be heard.