“I only asked what happened to the eggs for the pie… and all I got in return was an accusation of being selfish.” My daughter-in-law declared she’d buy a separate fridge and refuse to let me touch their food.
There are moments in life when you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Yesterday, I had one of those—I’m still shaking. I decided to bake a pie—hadn’t treated the family in ages. The weather was lovely, my spirits high, my granddaughter playing in the next room. Everything was ready, just needed the eggs. I opened the fridge… nothing. I’d set them aside just hours before, certain no one would take them. But they were gone.
Naturally, I asked my daughter-in-law—maybe she’d moved them. What followed was unreal. She snapped: “What, you’d begrudge your own granddaughter eggs? She had an omelette this morning!” My chest tightened. I couldn’t believe my ears. I muttered, “You foolish woman…” Yes, I lost my temper. Harsh words, but what else do you say when you’re accused of stinginess over eggs *you* bought?
Her response? “I’ll buy my own fridge. Everyone can eat their own food from now on!” Imagine—under one roof, in the same flat, separate fridges? That’s not a family, it’s a boarding house. And all because I—a mother, a grandmother—dared to ask about missing eggs.
I’m not a young woman. I live modestly, no luxuries. This flat is all I have, scraped together through sheer luck. My pension stretches thin—I hunt for bargains at the market while they claim they’re “too busy.” My son works dawn till dusk just to keep them afloat. No hope for their own place yet—rent’s extortionate, a mortgage out of reach. So it’s the four of us in a two-bed: me, my son, his wife, and little Grace. I keep out of their way, grateful even for the company.
But living together isn’t just shared walls and a kitchen. It’s respect. It’s remembering the elderly have needs too—and yes, the right to bake a damn pie. And here we were, rowing over two eggs. It’s not the first time—too many petty clashes: a misplaced pan, a “borrowed” pot, groceries vanishing before I could cook them. I bit my tongue. Not this time. Because it’s not about the eggs. Or the fridge. Or even the pie.
It’s about how they see me. The ache of a lifetime spent caring, providing—only to be called “selfish.” *I* invited them here. Shared what little I had. Now? I’m to eat alone, live apart, stay silent.
I know we’re different generations. But family isn’t about fridges. Or who ate what. It’s respect. Gratitude. And today, I learned mine’s in short supply.
Fine. I’ll keep to myself. Let them take what they want. If there’s nothing left, I’ll make do with toast. Eat together? Let them dine without me. But mark this: not because I’m petty. Because *they* chose it. And I won’t forget.
