The Fridge Isn’t a Buffet! How My Daughter and Her “Friends” Brought Me to Tears
I’ve got a daughter, Emily. She’s lively, kind, and incredibly open with people—too open, really. She’s friends with practically everyone—classmates, kids from the neighbourhood, lads from her after-school clubs, even some I’ve honestly never seen before. Lately, this whole cheerful gang has made themselves at home in our house.
Apparently, it’s too cold outside, but they still want to play. Emily, ever the gracious host, invites them all in, puts on music, hands out biscuits, pours tea, and turns our living room into a noisy hangout spot. At first, I let it slide—thought it was just kids having a bit of fun before heading off. I was even happy she had such a warm social circle. But then it all spiralled out of control.
The other day, I came home from work exhausted, starving, dreaming of nothing but dinner and collapsing on the sofa. Instead, the kitchen greeted me with a surprise. Two unfamiliar boys, about ten years old, were sitting at the table, scooping up the last of my shepherd’s pie—straight from the baking dish! The one I’d made to last two nights, so I wouldn’t have to cook again the next evening.
I froze in the doorway. The boys, completely unfazed, polished it off, dumped their plates in the sink, and left with a cheerful wave. Meanwhile, I stood there, stunned. Lunch, dinner—gone. Nothing left for my own family—my husband, my child—not a scrap.
I went to Emily’s room and calmly explained: giving friends tea and sweets? Fine. But meals like soup, roast, shepherd’s pie? That’s food for our family, bought with hard-earned money and prepped in the little free time I have. I don’t cook just so strangers can help themselves from my dishes while I’m not home.
Emily slammed the door in my face and locked it. Moments later, I heard her shouting through the wood:
“You’re just greedy! My own mum, and you won’t even let my friends eat!”
She was hurt. Offended. Shut herself away. Didn’t even come out for dinner, though I gritted my teeth and made mashed potatoes with sausages—just so someone would have a proper meal.
The next morning, I sat Emily down and said plainly: “Food’s for two days. I get home late, and I won’t cook at midnight. If you’re growing up, learn to understand simple things.” She turned away and left for school without a word.
When I got back past eleven, my husband was frying eggs. Because, once again, there was no food left. Emily had dragged her friends over while we were at work, and they’d cleared out the fridge completely—no stew, no sausages, not even the sandwich fillings. Just wrappers and dirty plates.
Emily locked herself in her room again, ignoring our questions. My husband and I just exchanged looks—we both knew this wasn’t about food anymore. It was about a child who wouldn’t listen. Refused to. Saw us as the villains for asking something basic: respect for our home, our effort, our boundaries.
I’m not stingy. We’re not poor, but we work for everything we have. And I can’t—morally can’t—feed other people’s kids. And I don’t want to.
I’m tired. I’m desperate. It hurts that my own daughter sees my care as meanness. My mum says I should 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 listen?
Did I miss something in raising her? Was I too soft? Or is it just Emily being a teenager, and this will pass? I don’t know. I’m at a loss.
Has anyone else dealt with this? How do you get through to a teen who thinks mum’s just a free cook and a walking fridge? How do you bring back respect for family and make them value hard work?
I just want to see gratitude in my daughter’s eyes again. Not a scowl because Sunday roast isn’t an all-you-can-eat buffet.
