The Fridge Isn’t a Diner! How My Daughter and Her “Friends” Pushed Me to Tears
My daughter, Emily, is growing up fast. She’s lively, kindhearted, and endlessly open to people—sometimes too open. She’ll befriend anyone: classmates, kids from the next estate, children from her clubs, even strangers I’ve never laid eyes on. Lately, this cheerful horde has taken up residence in our house.
“It’s freezing outside,” they say, “and we want to play!” Emily, ever the gracious hostess, invites them in—music on, biscuits handed out, tea poured, the whole lot of them laughing and carrying on. At first, I turned a blind eye. Kids having a chat, no harm done. I was even glad she had such a warm circle. But then it spiraled out of control.
Last week, I came home exhausted, starving, dreaming only of dinner and collapsing onto the sofa. Instead, the kitchen greeted me with a shock. Two boys I’d never met—no older than ten—sat at the table, scooping the last of the shepherd’s pie straight from the dish. *My dish.* The one I’d made for two nights’ worth of meals, so I wouldn’t have to cook again after late shifts.
I froze in the doorway. The boys barely glanced up, finished every last bite, dumped their plates in the sink, and strolled off with a carefree “Cheers!” I stood there, numb. Lunch, dinner—gone. Nothing left for my own family, my husband, my child. Not a scrap.
I went to Emily’s room. Kept my voice steady. “Tea and biscuits for your friends? Fine. But proper meals—meat, pies, soups—those are for us. Food I spend hours making, money I’ve worked hard for. I don’t cook just so strangers can raid our fridge while we’re out.”
Emily slammed the door in my face. A minute later, her muffled voice hurled blame through the wood:
“You’re just *mean*! What kind of mum won’t even feed my friends?”
She was hurt. Angry. Locked herself in. Didn’t come out for dinner, even though I—jaw clenched—chopped potatoes and fried sausages so *someone* would eat properly.
Next morning, I pulled her aside. “Food’s prepped for two days. I’m home late—I won’t be cooking midnight meals. If you’re grown-up enough to have friends over, be grown-up enough to understand this.” She turned away and left for school without a word.
By half-eleven that night, my husband was scrambling eggs. Because, once again, the fridge was empty. Emily had brought her friends round. While we’d been at work, they’d cleaned us out—no soup, no sausages, not even a sandwich left. Just wrappers and dirty plates.
Emily locked herself in again. Ignored us. My husband and I exchanged a look—this wasn’t about food anymore. It was about a child who wouldn’t listen. *Refused* to listen. Who saw us as villains for asking one simple thing: respect for our home, our effort, our boundaries.
I’m not stingy. We’re not struggling, but every penny’s earned. And I *can’t*—morally, emotionally—feed other people’s children. I won’t.
I’m tired. I’m desperate. It *hurts* that my own daughter twists my care into selfishness. My mum says, “Take a belt to her.” But I don’t believe in that. I believe in words, in explanations. But what do you do when the child won’t *hear* them?
Did I fail somewhere? Was I too soft? Or is it just Emily’s age—a phase that’ll pass? I don’t know. I’m lost.
Has anyone else faced this? How do you reach a teenager who thinks “mum” is just free catering? How do you bring back respect, make them value hard work?
I just want to see gratitude in my daughter’s eyes again. Not scorn because “Sunday roast isn’t a bloody takeaway.”
