There are moments in life when youre not sure whether to laugh or cry. Yesterday, I had one of those daysmy hands are still shaking. Id decided to bake a piehavent spoiled the family with a homemade treat in ages. The weather was mild, my mood was light, and my granddaughter was playing in the next room. Everything was ready except the eggs. I opened the fridge doorgone. Vanished. Id set them aside just that morning so no one would pinch them. But poofnothing.
Naturally, I asked my daughter-in-law, Emily, if shed moved them. And oh, the storm that followed! She flew off the handle: What, youre begrudging your own granddaughter eggs? She had scrambled eggs for breakfast! I stood there, gobsmacked. My heart sank. Thats utterly daft, I said. Yes, I admit itharsh words, but honestly, how else do you react when youre called tight-fisted over two eggs you bloody well bought yourself?
Her retort? Fine! Ill buy my own fridge, and well all eat our own food! Picture it: under one roof, in the same cramped flat, with separate fridges? Thats not a familythats a dodgy houseshare. And all because I dared ask where my eggs had gone.
Im not exactly spring chicken. I live modestlyno frills, no luxuries. This flat is all Ive got, scraped together through sheer luck and stubbornness. My pension stretches just far enough if I hunt down bargains at Tesco and pounce on yellow-sticker deals. The younger lot? Too busy, they say. Too tired. Too swamped. My son, Oliver, works dawn till dusk to keep them afloat. No hope of moving out anytime soonrents are sky-high, mortgages a fantasy. So here we are, four of us in a two-bed: me, Oliver, Emily, and little Sophie. I tiptoe around, careful not to intrude, and try to enjoy the company
But living together isnt just sharing a loo and a kettle. Its respect. Its grasping that an old bird like me has her own ways, her own needsand yes, the right to bake a ruddy pie. And now, a row over two eggs. Not the first time, either: a missing pan, a borrowed pot, ingredients vanished mid-recipe. I bite my tongue. But this time? No. Because its not about eggs, or fridges, or even pies.
Its about being seen. About spending a lifetime feeding, raising, givingonly to be called stingy. I took them in, didnt I? Shared my home, my things, made do. And now Im to eat separately, live separately, keep to my corner?
I knowdifferent generations, different ideas. But family isnt about fridges. Or who ate what. Its respect. A scrap of kindness. A ta now and then. Im not after grovelling. But stingy? That stings. Badly.
So heres my new motto: Ill keep my nose out. If they scoff the lot, so be it. If theres nothing left, beans on toast it is. Family meals? Let them eat alone. But let them know this: its not because Im petty or miserly. Its their choice. Their doing. And me? Ill remember. And learn.
Lifes funny, isnt it? Respect vanishes quicker than biscuits in a tin, but a family shouldnt split over eggsor anything else.
