Seeing 6 families of my husband’s friends enter the house one after another but no one could even carry a melon or a bag of cakes, I felt uncomfortable. What’s more annoying is that after the meal, they had this attitude…
On the weekend, my husband Marco in Pasig City excitedly said: “Tonight I’ll invite a few brothers to our house for dinner, only 6 families, with wives and children for fun.” I didn’t object; since I invited them, I tried to entertain them well.

I’m used to cooking, so preparing a large meal wasn’t difficult. I was just worried that each family’s taste was different, so I made a tray of rolls with lots of meat, ham, fish, shrimp… plus a few familiar Filipino dishes like lumpia, pancit, and some grilled liempo so that the children and adults could eat together.

That day I didn’t prepare any fruit, thinking that when guests came to my house, they would definitely have pasalubong—buy some fruit or soft drinks—but I prepared them in advance, which was redundant. There was only a box of San Miguel and a few cans of soft drinks in the house. But surprisingly, when 6 families came, no one brought even a single melon, a bag of fruit or a bottle of soft drink—all came empty-handed.

Yet the children who came with their parents, some held candy, some held chichirya like Piattos, Chippy… but my child had no share. “This is their first time coming to my house, why are they so rude,” I thought, but kept it in mind.

They came in empty-handed, laughing and talking, then sat down at the table waiting to eat. Looking back at the tray of food, then opening the refrigerator, there were only a few lanzones and mangosteen left, I had to rush to the SM Hypermarket near my house to buy 2 large watermelons in time to serve the guests.

Seeing me carrying the watermelons back, the guests seemed to be embarrassed. The watermelons were cut open, and the children ate them all. There was not a single lanzones or mangosteen left. All the guests ate enthusiastically, laughing and talking animatedly. But after the meal, absolutely no one said: “Let me help you with hugas pinggan, ligpit.”

After finishing the meal, they sat around for a few more minutes and then left one by one, without touching the dishes. The pile of things in the sink was so messy that I felt bored just looking at it. After seeing the guests off, I went back alone to wash the dishes, wipe the tables and chairs, and collect the trash until midnight—while Marco fell asleep after a few cans of San Miguel.

I didn’t complain about being tired, but was angry because I was being overlooked. I didn’t need expensive gifts—I just wanted them to bring a melon, a box of cakes, or at least offer to help clean up.

The next morning, I told my husband directly:
“Next time you want to invite your friends, invite them to a restaurant. At home, I won’t entertain anyone else.”

And then… Marco just kept quiet—perhaps he understood and was also embarrassed with his wife. I didn’t need any explanation.

I told my best friend about it and she told me not to take it to heart: “Many people think simply, if you invite me to dinner, I will come, there is no need to bring a gift.” But I disagree. In the Philippines, even if it is a friendly meal, I always bring a box of soft drinks, some ice, or a bag of fruit/pasalubong—not empty-handed. The way my husbands behave makes me feel that they are tactless and unreasonable.

From now on, home is a place to rest, not a place for me to serve walang dala guests for free

— “The Melon, the Sink, and the Marital Boundary”

On Sunday morning, Marco woke up late, his head still heavy from the cans of San Miguel. I was taking out the trash, the dishwasher was running loudly. He looked around the kitchen—empty sink, dry floor, spotless tables and chairs—as if the “storm” of the night had not happened.

“Did you wake up early and do everything?” he scratched his head.

“Since I fell asleep,” I said shortly. “And… I’m tired, Marco. Next time you want to invite friends, invite them out. I’ll stop at home.”

Marco paused for a few beats. “Am I overdoing it? They’re close friends, it’s weird to calculate like that.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m not calculating. I feel slighted. Six houses, walang dala No one ligpit no one hugas pinggan I don’t need expensive gifts, just respect the host’s efforts.”

He exhaled, avoiding my eyes. “Let me send a message to the group to explain…”

“Not ‘explain,’” I interrupted, keeping my voice calm. “Set boundaries. This is our house, not a buffet. If someone is dear to us, they will understand.”

Marco frowned—obviously conflicted. He grew up in a culture of “when you come home, it’s home,” where friends come over to have a tambay (drinking), and then go home after eating. I believed that no matter how close we were, we had to keep our manners. The two thoughts clashed loudly in the brightly lit kitchen.

At noon, he picked up his phone and typed slowly on the “Tropang Thursday” group:

“Mga pre, we had fun last night. But we agreed on the house rules: Whoever comes, bring pasalubong or stay ligpit/hugas. If it’s not convenient, meet sa labas

A series of pings appeared.

Bong: “Uy pare, formal naman, hahaha.”

Jerson: “Okay lang, next time potluck.”

Mico sent a 👍 icon.

Marco glanced at me, his defenses dropping a notch. But that night, when he flipped the camera in front of the house, the video of me carrying two melons from the supermarket, my back drenched in sweat, appeared clearly. He was silent, scrolling the timeline: 10:04 PM I was still standing washing dishes, my hands red from the hot water.

He put down the phone. “I… am sorry. I didn’t see you.”

I didn’t say “it’s okay”—because it was okay. But I nodded: “Thank you for seeing.”

Next week, on my son’s birthday, my friends suggested a salusalo potluck. I sent Marco a private message: “I’m willing to try again at home, if three conditions are met:

A clear list of who brought what;

A hugas-ligpit group;

You head the kitchen.”

He replied: “Copy.”

Marco made a Google Sheet to divide the portions: Bong brought soft drinks + ice, Jerson brought fruits, Mico brought pichi-pichi cakes, Arvin took BBQ liempo, Tin & Mia brought lumpia. The “logistics” group divided the shifts: hugas ligpit basura . The group suddenly… looked like a small event team.

That night, 5/6 of the family brought enough portions. As for Bong… still empty-handed with the familiar smile. He entered the gate, before he could say “Pare!”, Marco pointed to the wooden board I hung in front of the kitchen, the handwriting was clear and large:

HOUSE RULE
Pasok may dala → Welcome!
Pasok walang dala → HUGAS PINGGAN TEAM 🎯

The whole group burst into laughter. Bong scratched his head: “Sige na nga.” That night, he put on gloves, and stood with Marco at the sink. I looked through the kitchen door—two men were giggling, competing to see who could wash faster. The sound of running water sounded… as light as the sound of early season rain.

The children ate the melon, sharing it equally; the lanzones didn’t “suck it all up” like last time because Mia reminded the kids: “Share tayo.” After the meal, Tin and Mico automatically collected the trash, separating it from the dry and wet. I was free to blow out the candles with my children, not having to run back and forth between the kitchen and the table. It had been a long time since I had sat at my own party.

At the end of the meal, Bong brought the trash bag out, panting: “Pare, respeto pala ‘to. Next time ako na sa drinks.” Marco patted him on the shoulder. “Salamat, pre.”

Late at night, when the house was quiet, Marco poured me a glass of water. “I think… I was wrong in two ways,” he said, his eyes not averting. “One, I put your comfort before my strength. Two, I hid in bed instead of standing next to you.”

I listened, the feeling of resentment settling like the foam at the end of a glass of beer. “I was partly wrong too,” I answered truthfully. “You kept your anger in silence for too long, and when it finally broke out, it shocked me. Next time, let’s talk early and make an agreement.”

We smiled—a smile that had lost its bitterness. Marco took a marker and wrote a small line on the wooden board:

Bonus Rule: The host gets to sit down to eat. Whoever loves the host → pulls them to sit down.

I took a photo, sent it to the group, and everyone dropped ❤️.

Will the husband have a conflict with his wife?

Yes—the conflict happened the very next day. He was defensive, I was hurt. But instead of letting it turn into a trench, we turned it into a boundary: clear, fair, and respected.

And how will their marriage be?
It won’t be broken because of two melons—on the contrary, thanks to two melons, our marriage will stand straighter. Marco learned to be an ally with his wife before becoming a “host” with his friends; I learned to speak up early and make my needs clear. Our house is not closed to friends, but is open according to the rules of kindness: everyone contributes—money, time, or hands.

A few months later, the group of friends came into the house again. Before dinner, Bong picked up the Coke case, grinning: “Pre, today ako ang may dala, huwag n’yo na akong push qua hugas team, ha!” Marco replied: “Deal. But the bonus rule still applies: let your wife sit and eat.”

I pulled up a chair. Marco sat next to me—not hiding in beer, not hiding in sleep. The meal was noisy but warm, and our marriage, amid all the dishes of everyday life, ran as smoothly as a newly serviced dishwasher.

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