**The Fridge Isn’t a Café! How My Daughter and Her Pals Drove Me to Tears**
My daughter, Emily, is growing up—bright, kind, and far too trusting. She makes friends with everyone: classmates, kids from the next street over, even children from her football club whom I’ve never seen before. Lately, her cheerful little gang has taken up residence in our home.
“It’s too chilly outside,” they say, but they still want to play. So Emily, ever the gracious hostess, invites them in, cranks up the music, hands out biscuits, pours tea, and turns our house into a noisy game centre. At first, I didn’t mind—just kids having fun, right? I was even glad she had such a warm circle. But soon, things spiralled out of control.
One evening, I came home exhausted, ravenous, dreaming only of dinner and the sofa. The kitchen, however, held a shock. Two boys I’d never met—no older than ten—were sitting at the table, polishing off a shepherd’s pie. Straight from the dish. *My* dish, meant to last two nights so I wouldn’t have to cook daily!
I froze in the doorway. The boys, unfazed, finished every bite, dumped their plates in the sink, and left with a cheery wave. Meanwhile, I stood there, stunned. Dinner—vanished. No leftovers for my husband, my daughter, or me. Not a scrap.
I knocked on Emily’s door and calmly explained: “Tea and biscuits? Fine. But our meals—the things I spend hours making after work—are for *this* family.”
She slammed the door and locked it. Moments later, her muffled accusation cut through:
“You’re just selfish! What kind of mum won’t even feed my friends?”
Silence followed. She skipped dinner, though I’d gritted my teeth and whipped up sausages and mash just to have *something* on the table.
The next morning, I pulled her aside. “That food was for two days. I don’t have time to cook every night. You’re old enough to understand.” She turned away and left for school without a word.
That night, I returned past eleven to find my husband frying eggs. Again, the fridge was bare—no stew, no sandwiches, just empty wrappers and dirty plates. Emily had entertained her friends *again*, devouring everything while we were at work.
She locked herself in her room, ignoring us. My husband and I exchanged glances—this wasn’t just about food. Our child wasn’t *listening*. To us, to reason. She saw us as villains for asking the bare minimum: respect for our home, our effort, and our boundaries.
I’m not stingy. We’re middle-class, but we work hard for what we have. I *can’t* feed half the neighbourhood—not financially, not emotionally. And I *won’t*.
I’m tired. I’m heartbroken. It hurts that my own daughter mistakes my care for miserliness. My mother says, “Take a slipper to her.” But I don’t believe in force. I believe in words, in explanations. But what if the child won’t *hear* them?
Did I fail somewhere? Was I too lenient? Or is it just teenage rebellion, a phase that’ll pass? I don’t know. I’m lost.
Has anyone else faced this? How do you reach a teenager who treats home like a free diner? 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 “roast dinners aren’t a buffet.”
**Sometimes, love isn’t just giving—it’s teaching them to honour what’s given.**
