The other day my stepson and his friend came to my house to pick up some of the stuff my stepson had stored in our basement as he was moving to a new apartment. They said they needed to make another trip so I invited them to stay for dinner when they returned. They said yes, so I went into “cooking for company” mode.

I spent the afternoon cooking and baking. I had planned to go for a run or a swim, since my husband was home to watch our young son, but I cooked instead. I happily seared meat and chopped vegetables. When I got to the point where everything was cooking, I pulled out my stand mixer and whipped up a batch of cookie dough so I could make a special dessert.

Just as I was putting the finishing touches on the meal, I saw the truck pull up out back and my guys started loading furniture into it from the basement. I watched them out the kitchen window for a minute and then went back to the stove.

Ten minutes later, my husband and son came in.

“They’re not staying for dinner, Di,” my husband said.

“Oh, okay,” I said. “Are they out front?”

“No, they left. They wanted to get back and start unloading.”

“They didn’t even say good bye?”

“I’m really sorry,” my husband said.

I stood for a second, tongs in one hand, oven mitt on the other. I had a decision to make. I could either be really upset that I had cooked all afternoon “for nothing,” or I could let it go.

Truthfully, I love to cook, so company coming is an excuse for me to take time to cook a big meal. I could have gone running and picked up pizzas on the way home. I chose not to.

I shrugged and said, “That’s okay, Tom, it’ll still be a good supper.”

And it was.