**Diary Entry**
Sometimes life throws you a moment where you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Yesterday was one of those days. I decided to bake a pie—long overdue, really, with the weather being so pleasant and my granddaughter playing in the next room. Everything was ready, except the eggs. I opened the fridge… and they were gone. I’d set them aside just that morning.
Naturally, I asked my daughter-in-law if she’d moved them. That’s when it started. She snapped, “What, are you begrudging your own granddaughter eggs? She had scrambled eggs for breakfast!” I stood there, stunned. My heart ached at the accusation. “You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered—yes, I lost my temper. A harsh word, perhaps, but how else to react when I’m called stingy over eggs I bought myself?
Then she said it: “I’ll buy my own fridge, and we’ll each stick to our own food.” Imagine that—under one roof, in the same house, with separate fridges? It’s not a family anymore, it’s like some sort of boarding house. And all because I, a mother and grandmother, dared ask where the eggs had gone.
I’m not young anymore. I live modestly, no luxuries. This house is all I have—got it through sheer luck, really. I scrape by on my pension, counting every pound. I go to the market for deals, compare prices. The young ones? “Too busy,” they say. My son works from dawn till dusk just to keep them afloat. Renting privately is too dear, a mortgage out of the question. So here we are, the four of us—me, my son, his wife, and little Emily—crammed into a two-bedroom. I try to stay out of their way, grateful at least for the company.
But living together isn’t just sharing a kitchen or a bathroom. It’s respect. It’s remembering the elderly have needs too—and yes, even the right to bake a pie. And yet here we are, quarrelling over two eggs. It’s not the first time, either. A pan left unwashed, a pot borrowed without asking, groceries I’d set aside suddenly gone. I bite my tongue. But this time, I couldn’t. Because it’s not about the eggs, or the fridge, or even the pie.
It’s about how they see me. The sting of giving your whole life—feeding, caring, loving—only to be called “selfish.” I invited them here, shared what little I have, made room. Now they want separate meals, separate lives, as if I’m some intruder.
I know we’re different generations. They have their ways, I have mine. But family isn’t about fridges or who ate what. It’s about care. Gratitude. I don’t expect bows and curtsies. But being accused of stinginess? That hurts. Deeply.
So now I think: fine. Let them take what they want. If there’s nothing left, I’ll have toast. Eat together? They can eat alone. Not because I’m petty—because they chose this. And I won’t forget it.
