The Fridge Isn’t a Buffet! How My Daughter and Her “Friends” Brought Me to Tears
I’ve got a daughter, Poppy. She’s lively, kind, and painfully open-hearted—sometimes too open-hearted. She’s friends with literally everyone: classmates, kids from the next street over, children from her extracurriculars, even ones I’ve never laid eyes on before. Lately, this merry band of chums has taken up residence in our house.
“It’s cold outside, and we just want to play,” they say. So Poppy, ever the gracious hostess, ushers them in, puts on music, hands out biscuits, pours tea, and orchestrates a raucous little gathering. At first, I turned a blind eye. Kids popping in—no harm done, right? I was even pleased she had such a warm social circle. But then, things spiralled.
Last week, I dragged myself home from work, exhausted and starving, dreaming only of dinner and collapsing onto the sofa. Instead, I was met with a surprise in the kitchen: two unfamiliar boys, about ten years old, sitting at the table and polishing off a shepherd’s pie. Straight from the dish. My dish! The one I’d made to last two days precisely so I wouldn’t have to cook every evening.
I froze in the doorway. The boys, entirely unfazed, scraped the dish clean, dumped their plates in the sink, and breezed out with a cheery, “Ta-ra!” Meanwhile, I stood there, baffled. Lunch, dinner—gone. Not a crumb left for my own family, my own husband and child.
I marched into Poppy’s room and calmly explained: “Tea and biscuits for your friends? Fine. But stew, roast dinners, shepherd’s pie? That’s for us. That’s what I spend my wages and evenings making. I don’t cook so strangers can help themselves while we’re out.”
Poppy slammed the door in my face and locked it. Moments later, I heard her accusation through the wood:
“You’re just stingy! My own mum, and you won’t even let my friends eat!”
She was hurt. Offended. Sulking. She didn’t even come out for dinner—though I, clenching my teeth, had reheated mashed potatoes and made sausages just so someone would eat properly.
The next morning, I sat her down and said plainly, “Food’s for two days. I get home late, and I won’t cook at midnight. If you’re old enough to have mates over, you’re old enough to understand basic boundaries.” She turned her back and left for school without a word.
When I got back past eleven, my husband was frying eggs. Because—again—there was no food left. Poppy had hauled her friends in once more. While we were at work, they’d ransacked the fridge. No soup, no leftovers, not even a sandwich remained. Just crumpled wrappers and dirty dishes.
Poppy locked herself in her room again, ignoring our questions. My husband and I exchanged a look—we both knew this wasn’t about food anymore. It was about a child who wouldn’t listen. Who refused to. Who saw us as villains for asking the bare minimum: respect for our home, our effort, and our boundaries.
I’m not stingy. We’re not struggling, but we work for what we have. And I can’t—morally or financially—feast the neighbourhood. I won’t.
I’m tired. I’m at my wits’ end. It stings that my own daughter treats my care as tight-fistedness. My mum says, “Take a belt to her.” But I don’t believe in belts. I believe in talking, in explaining. But what do you do when the child won’t hear a word?
Did I mess up raising her? Was I too soft? Or is this just a phase—a teenage blip? I don’t know. I’m lost.
Has anyone else been here? How do you get through to a teen who thinks Mum’s just a free chef and walking fridge? How do you teach respect for family and hard work?
I just want to see gratitude in my daughter’s eyes again.
Not resentment because I won’t turn our kitchen into a Wetherspoons.
