I merely asked what had become of the eggs for the pie… and in return, was called a miser. My daughter-in-law declared she’d buy her own refrigerator and forbid me from touching their food.
There come moments in life when one hardly knows whether to laugh or weep. Yesterday, I found myself in such a state—my hands still tremble now at the memory. I had resolved to bake a pie, something I hadn’t done in ages, wanting to treat the family. The weather was mild, my spirits high, my granddaughter playing in the next room. Everything was ready—save for the eggs. I opened the refrigerator door… and there was nothing. Only hours before, they had been there; I’d set them aside myself, so no one would disturb them. Yet now, they were gone.
Naturally, I went to ask my daughter-in-law—perhaps she had moved them. But instead of an answer, I was met with a storm. “What, were you begrudging your own granddaughter eggs? She had an omelette this morning!” I stood there, stunned. My heart clenched with hurt. “Well, you’re a fool,” I snapped—yes, the words escaped me. It was harsh, but what else could I say when accused of greed over a few eggs I had bought myself?
Her retort? “I’ll buy my own fridge, and mark my words—everyone will eat only what’s theirs!” Imagine, under one roof, in the same home—separate refrigerators? It stops being a family then. It becomes a lodging-house arrangement. And all because I, a mother and grandmother, dared to ask about missing eggs.
I am no longer young. My life is modest, free of extravagance. This flat is the only thing I own, secured with great effort, almost by chance. I live on my pension, counting every penny, shopping at the market for the best bargains. The young ones say they’re “too busy” for such things. They work, they tire—I understand. My son is out from dawn till dusk, struggling to keep his family from want. There’s no hope yet of their own home; renting is dear, a mortgage out of reach. So we share this small place—him, his wife, their little girl, and me. I keep to myself, stay out of their way, even take comfort in the company.
But living together is more than shared kitchen and bath. It is respect. It is knowing that an elder, too, is a person, with needs, habits, and—heaven forbid—a right to bake a pie. And yet here we were, quarreling over two eggs. This wasn’t the first awkwardness, either—a pan misplaced, a pot taken without asking, groceries eaten that I’d meant to cook. I held my tongue, bore it all. But this time, I could not. Because it wasn’t about the eggs, nor the refrigerator, nor even the pie.
It was about regard. The ache of a life spent caring, giving, feeding, raising—only to be called “stingy.” I had invited them in, never turned them away. Shared all I had, made do as best we could. Now, I was to eat apart, live apart, keep to my corner.
I know we are of different generations. They have their ways; I have mine. But family is not about fridges. Not about who ate what. It is about respect, care, and gratitude. I don’t expect bows and scrapes. But to be accused of selfishness—that cuts deep.
So now I think: very well. Let them take what they will. If nothing remains, I’ll boil myself a little porridge. Dine together? Let them dine alone. Only let them know—it’s not because I’m wounded, nor because I’m miserly. It’s their choice. Their doing. And I… I will remember. And draw my own conclusions.
