There was a time, long ago now, when I found myself torn between my daughter’s happiness and the order of our home.
My daughter, Emily Whitmore, was the heart of every gathering—her warmth drew friends like bees to honey. In our little house in Manchester, there was always a bustle of children about her, not just classmates but all sorts from the neighborhood. I was glad she was so well-liked, but soon, the situation grew beyond my control, and I was at my wit’s end.
It began when she started inviting friends home. The weather was bitter, the streets chilled with winter, and I didn’t mind them playing indoors. At first, she’d offer them tea and biscuits, put on music, invent little games. I even smiled to see her so hospitable. But then she began bringing strangers—boys and girls I’d never set eyes on—and their manners shocked me to the core.
One evening, I returned from work to find two lads in the kitchen, ladling our family’s stew straight from the pot—two days’ worth, gone in an instant. They left their dirty plates in the sink and vanished without so much as a “ta.” I was livid. There was nothing left for supper, and I was too weary to cook again.
I tried explaining to Emily that strangers mustn’t be let in so freely, nor fed from our larder. Biscuits and sweets were one thing, but the food in the fridge was ours. She flared up at once, called me a miser, then stormed off and slammed her bedroom door so hard I feared the windows might shatter. She locked herself away and wouldn’t speak to me. Guilt gnawed at me, but what else could I do?
I boiled potatoes, fried up a bit of sausage, and called everyone to the table. Emily refused to eat, acting as though I’d done her some great wrong. The next morning, before leaving for work, I warned her: “There’s food for two days. I’ll be late—don’t expect supper.” Yet when I returned past eleven, my husband, Thomas, was frying leftover scraps in an empty kitchen. Emily’s friends had raided the pantry again. She’d locked herself away once more, unwilling to explain.
I was desperate. How could I reach her? She wouldn’t listen, only hurled wild accusations—”You’re stingy, you hate my friends!” Was this merely the age? Had Thomas and I failed in raising her? I didn’t know how to act. My heart was split—I wanted her happy, but this chaos couldn’t go on.
I’m no penny-pincher, but our household budget was stretched thin. Thomas and I worked ourselves ragged to keep food on the table. I took care to make fine meals for our own, yet here I was, feeding half the neighborhood. My own mother muttered, “It’s time for the strap!” But I’d have none of that. I wanted peace, not punishments. Yet how? Emily wouldn’t speak, and I felt my own child slipping through my fingers.
What would you have done? How does one explain that such thoughtlessness wounds the whole family, without driving a daughter further away? How does one set limits before a home becomes a free tavern? Had you known such a trial? Share your wisdom—I was near breaking then.
