So, I just asked where the eggs for the pie had gone… and the next thing I know, I’m being called tight-fisted. My daughter-in-law actually said she’d buy a separate fridge so I wouldn’t touch their food anymore.
Honestly, there are moments in life where you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Yesterday was one of those days—I’m still fuming. I wanted to bake a pie—hadn’t done it in ages, the weather was nice, my granddaughter was playing in the next room. Everything was ready, just needed the eggs. I opened the fridge… and nothing. They were definitely there a couple of hours ago—I’d set them aside so no one would take them. Gone.
Naturally, I asked my daughter-in-law if she’d moved them or used them. Well, that set her off. “Oh, so you’re begrudging your own granddaughter eggs now? She had an omelette this morning!” I just stood there, stunned. Felt like my heart was being squeezed out of sheer hurt. I muttered, “Don’t be daft…” Yeah, I lost my cool. Harsh word, but what else do you say when you’re being accused of being stingy over eggs *you* bought?
Then she snaps back, “Fine, I’ll buy my own fridge, and we’ll all stick to our own food!” Can you imagine? Under the same roof, in the same flat—but with separate fridges? That’s not a family, that’s a bloody shared house. And why? Because a mother, a grandmother, dared to ask where her eggs had gone.
I’m not a young woman anymore. Live modestly, no luxuries. This flat’s all I’ve got—got it through sheer luck, really. I’m on a pension, count every penny, go to the market for cheaper deals, chase discounts. The young ones, they say they’re “too busy.” I get it—my son works from dawn till dusk just to keep them afloat. No chance of them moving out anytime soon—rent’s extortionate, a mortgage’s out of reach. So we’re crammed into this two-bed: me, my son, his wife, and their little girl. I try to stay out of their way, not be a burden—God knows, I’m even glad for the company.
But living together isn’t just sharing a kitchen and bathroom. It’s respect. It’s remembering that an old woman is still a person—with needs, habits, and, heaven forbid, the right to bake a pie. And here we are, rowing over a couple of eggs. It’s not the first time, either—someone moves my pan, nicks my pot, eats the ingredients I was saving. I bite my tongue. But this time? I snapped. Because it’s not about the eggs, or the fridge, or even the pie.
It’s about how you’re treated. The ache of spending your life caring, providing, raising—only to be called “tight-fisted.” *I* was the one who let them move in, never turned them away. Shared everything, made do. And now? I’m meant to eat separately, live separately, stay out of their way.
I know we’re different generations—they’ve got their ways, I’ve got mine. But family isn’t about fridges. It’s not about who ate what. It’s about respect. Care. Gratitude. I’m not asking for bows and curtsies. But being called stingy? That stings. Really stings.
So now? I won’t interfere. They eat my things? Fine. I’ll make do with a bowl of porridge. Family meals? Let them eat alone. Just know this—it’s not because I’m sulking or miserly. It’s because *they* chose this. *They* wanted it. And me? I’ll remember. And I’ll learn.
