I slump back in my chair, my face buried in my hands as the cacophony of voices rises around me. My parents, aunts and uncles were in a strenuous wrestle of words over who would pay the bill. Once again, we were at the loudest table in the restaurant and I could feel the eyes of other diners darting toward us.

“We are the ones who asked y’all to eat,” my mother would say as she waved her card towards the check.

“Your family let us stay at your house, so paying the check is the least we can do,” my aunt would counter.

This battle of hospitality became a tradition amongst my family, but as a kid, I was always confused about its reasoning.

Family dinners always stressed me out. The chaos of dishes flying across the table, the nagging of relatives to finish the last bite of a dish and the bickering over who had the right to pay for the bill—just split it and move on, I often thought. They were a far cry from the serene dinners I imagined most people had, but after more than a decade of meals, I saw something sublime beneath the increasing entropy.

Certain traditions never failed to make an appearance during these dinners, like how my aunt always insisted on serving everyone before herself. As she carefully portioned the best pieces of meat of a dish for others, she often left herself with the smaller, lesser wanted sections. As a child, I didn’t understand—why would she put herself last. But as I grew older, I realized it was her way of showing love. It wasn’t about the food; it was about ensuring everyone else felt cared for and valued.

Scattered across dinner tables, I would often see bits and scraps of food, delicious but never touched. A few bites would always be left—a scoop of fried rice, a piece of chicken, a lone dumpling—sitting in the center of the table like a hot potato no one wanted to touch.

“You finish it,” my uncle would say, pushing the plate toward my dad along the lazy Susan.

“No, no, you take it,” my dad would reply, spinning it back. I was often too scared of claiming the last bite out of guilt or embarrassment. It was only after their continued arguments that I realized no one wanted each dish, as they wanted to ensure each family member was well-fed.

These lessons carried beyond the dinner table and began seeping into my everyday life. I innately offered to help friends in need, even when I was busy. Remembering the altruistic nature of dinners, I began to implement these enlightenments into my character.

Looking back, I realize that those loud, chaotic family dinners weren’t a source of stress but rather a messier form of empathy and care.The noise and confusion were just the surface. Beneath it was an unspoken understanding that we were there for one another. While I may not have appreciated it then, I now see those dinners as some of the most important developments of my life. They taught me that love isn’t always quiet or orderly—sometimes, it’s loud, messy and overwhelming. But it’s always worth it.