The Fridge Isn’t a Free-for-All! How My Daughter and Her ‘Friends’ Brought Me to Tears
My daughter Emily is growing up—bright, kind, and painfully trusting. Too trusting. She makes friends with everyone—classmates, kids from the estate, girls from her dance class, even strangers I’ve never laid eyes on before. Lately, that whole crowd has taken to haunting our house.
“It’s cold outside!” they say. “We just want somewhere to hang out!” So Emily, ever the gracious hostess, ushers them in, puts on music, hands out biscuits, pours tea, and turns our flat into a rowdy youth club. At first, I didn’t mind. Kids being kids, I thought. Even felt proud—look at her, so well-liked. But then it spiralled out of control.
Last night, I came home exhausted, starving, dreaming only of dinner and the sofa. Instead, I found two lads—couldn’t have been older than twelve—scooping the last of my shepherd’s pie straight from the dish. My dish. The one I’d made to last two days so I wouldn’t have to cook every evening.
I froze in the doorway. They just wiped their mouths, dumped their plates in the sink, and breezed past me with a cheerful “Ta, love!” while I stood there, shell-shocked. Dinner—gone. The meals I’d planned for my husband, my child—vanished without a crumb left.
I went to Emily’s room. Kept my voice steady: “Tea and cake for your friends? Fine. But a proper meal—that’s for this family. Made with money I earned and time I don’t have to spare. I don’t cook so strangers can raid our fridge the second we’re out.”
She slammed the door in my face. Locked it. Then, muffled through the wood:
“You’re just selfish! Can’t even feed my mates! What kind of mum *are* you?”
Silence after that. No apologies. No dinner, either—though I clenched my jaw and fried up sausages and mash anyway, because *someone* had to eat properly.
Next morning, I stopped her at the door. “Food’s for two days. I’m not cooking after midnight. You’re old enough to understand that.” She turned away without a word and left for school.
By the time I got home past eleven, my husband was scraping together beans on toast. Because, once again, the fridge had been stripped bare. Emily had invited them all back. They’d cleared the lot—soup, sausages, even the cheese for sandwiches. Just wrappers and dirty dishes left behind.
She locked herself in her room. Wouldn’t answer us. My husband and I exchanged a look—this wasn’t about food anymore. It was about respect. About a child who refuses to listen, who sees us as villains for asking one simple thing: *This is our home. Not a takeaway.*
I’m not stingy. We aren’t poor. But every penny’s earned, and I won’t—*can’t*—pretend it’s fine to feed half the neighbourhood.
I’m tired. I’m heartsick. What cuts deepest? My own daughter mistakes love for greed. My mother says, “Take a belt to her.” But I don’t believe in belts. I believe in words. In reason. But what good are they if she won’t *hear* me?
Did I fail her? Was I too soft? Or is this just teenage rebellion, something she’ll outgrow? I don’t know. I’m lost.
Has anyone else faced this?
How do you reach a girl who treats you like a 24-hour diner?
How do you teach her that family isn’t just a wallet and a fridge?
I just want to see gratitude in her eyes again.
Not resentment because roast dinners aren’t a public service.
