“I only asked what happened to the eggs for the pie… and the response was that I’m greedy,” my daughter-in-law snapped, announcing she’d buy her own fridge and stop me from eating their food.
There are moments in life when you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Yesterday, I had one of those—my hands still shake thinking about it. I decided to bake a pie, something I hadn’t done in a while, hoping to treat the family. The weather was mild, my spirits were up, and my granddaughter was playing in the next room. Everything was ready, except the eggs were missing. I opened the fridge, and they were gone—they’d definitely been there two hours earlier. I’d set them aside so no one would touch them.
Naturally, I asked my daughter-in-law if she’d moved them. What followed was a tirade: “Oh, so you begrudge your own granddaughter eggs? She had an omelette this morning!” My chest tightened with hurt. “You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered—yes, I lost my temper. Harsh, perhaps, but how else do you react when accused of stinginess over two eggs you bought yourself?
Then came the threat: “I’ll buy my own fridge, and we’ll each eat our own food!” Picture it—living under one roof, in the same flat, yet divided by separate fridges? That’s not family, that’s a boarding house. And why? Because I, a mother and grandmother, dared to ask about missing eggs.
I’m not a young woman. My life is modest, no luxuries. This flat is all I have, hard-won, almost by chance. I live on my pension, counting every penny, shopping at the market for bargains. The younger ones say they “don’t have time”—they work long hours, exhausted, I understand. My son pulls double shifts just to keep them afloat. Renting elsewhere is unaffordable, a mortgage out of reach. So, we share this tiny two-bed flat: me, my son, his wife, and their little girl. I stay out of their way, grateful for the company.
But living together isn’t just sharing a kitchen or bathroom. It’s respect. It’s knowing the elderly have rights too—needs, habits, and yes, even the right to bake a pie. Yet here we are, fighting over eggs. It’s not the first time: misplaced pans, borrowed pots, food vanishing before I can cook it. I stay quiet, endure it. But yesterday broke me. Because this isn’t about eggs, or fridges, or pies.
It’s about decency. The sting of giving your all—care, meals, love—only to be called “greedy.” I invited them here, shared my home, pooled what little we have. Now they want me to eat separately, live apart, stay silent.
Generations clash, I know. But family isn’t about fridges or who ate what. It’s about respect, kindness, gratitude. I’m not asking for worship. But accusations of greed? That cuts deep.
So now, I’ll step back. If they eat it, fine. If nothing’s left, I’ll make do. Dinners together? Let them eat alone. But remember: not because I’m bitter or miserly. Because this was your choice. Yours. And I? I’ll remember. And learn.
The lesson? Respect costs nothing. But lose it, and you lose far more than eggs.
