**Diary Entry:**
The fridge isn’t a buffet! How my daughter and her “friends” drove me to tears
I have a daughter, Emily. She’s lively, kind-hearted, and terribly open—too open, really. She befriends just about everyone: classmates, kids from the estate, mates from after-school clubs, even those I’ve never laid eyes on before. Lately, this whole cheerful mob has taken up residence in our home.
Apparently, it’s too cold outside, but they still want to play. So Emily, ever the gracious host, invites them all in, puts on music, hands out biscuits, pours tea, and turns the place into a noisy hangout. At first, I turned a blind eye—so what if a few kids popped round? They’d stay a while, then leave. I even took pride in it, thinking how lovely it was that she had such a warm circle. But then things spiralled out of control.
The other day, I came home from work exhausted, starving, dreaming only of dinner and collapsing onto the sofa. Instead, the kitchen held a nasty surprise. Two boys—strangers to me, no older than ten—sat at the table, 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. The boys, unfazed, finished it off, dumped the dishes in the sink, and left with a cheery wave. And there I stood, dumbfounded. Lunch, dinner—gone. Nothing left for my own family, for my husband or my child. Not a scrap.
I went to Emily’s room and explained calmly: tea and biscuits for friends? Fine. But proper meals? Those are for us, bought with hard-earned money and precious time. I don’t cook for strangers to help themselves while we’re out.
She slammed the door in my face. Moments later, her muffled voice shot through the wood:
*”You’re just selfish! My own mum won’t even feed my friends!”*
She was hurt. Offended. Locked herself away, didn’t even come out for dinner—though I clenched my teeth and made roast potatoes and sausages anyway, so *someone* would eat properly.
The next morning, I pulled her aside. “Food is planned. I’m home late; I won’t cook at midnight. 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 nothing left. Emily had dragged her mates over. While we were at work, they’d raided the fridge—every last bite of stew, every sausage, even the sandwiches. Just wrappers and dirty plates remained.
Emily locked herself in her room again. Ignored us. My husband and I exchanged a look—both knowing this wasn’t just about food. It was about respect. About a child who refuses to listen, who paints us as villains for asking the bare minimum: to value home, effort, and boundaries.
I’m not stingy. We aren’t poor, but we work for what we have. And I can’t—won’t—feed half the neighbourhood. Not in principle, not in practice.
I’m tired. I’m heartbroken. It stings that my own daughter mistakes care for cheapness. My mum says *take a belt to her*. But I don’t believe in belts. I believe in talking, in explaining. Only—what do you do when the child won’t hear you?
Did I miss something? Was I too soft? Or is it just Emily’s age, this phase? I don’t know. I’m at a loss.
Has anyone else faced this? How do you reach a teenager who thinks Mum’s just a free chef and a walking fridge? How do you teach respect for family, for work?
I just want to see gratitude in her eyes again. Not resentment because beef stew isn’t a bloody takeaway.
