Life has a way of throwing moments at you when youre not sure whether to laugh or cry. Yesterday, I found myself in one of those situationsmy hands are still shaking just thinking about it. Id decided to bake a piesomething I hadnt done in ages to treat my family. The weather was mild, my spirits were high, and my granddaughter was playing in the next room. Everything was readyexcept the eggs. I opened the fridge and they were gone. Id set them aside just hours earlier, making sure no one would take them. Yet there they werevanished without a trace.
Naturally, I asked my daughter-in-law if shed moved them or used them. And thats when the storm broke. She flew off the handle: “What? Youre denying eggs to your own granddaughter? She had scrambled eggs this morning!” I stood there, stunned. My heart ached. Before I could stop myself, I muttered, “Youre being ridiculous” Harsh, perhapsbut how else do you respond when youre accused of being stingy over two eggs *you* bought?
Her retort? “Fine! Ill buy my own fridge, and well each keep our own food!” Imagine thatunder the same roof, in the same flat, with separate fridges? Thats not a family anymore; thats a shared house. And all because I dared to ask where the eggs had gone.
Im not a young woman anymore. I live modestlyno luxuries, just my pension stretching as far as it can. This flat is all I have, and I got it through sheer luck and struggle. I shop at markets to save, I watch for sales. The younger generation? They claim theyre “too busy.” They work long hours, exhaustedI understand. My son is at the office dawn till dusk, trying to lift his family out of hardship. A place of their own isnt an option yetrents are sky-high, mortgages out of reach. So, the four of us squeeze into this two-bedroom flat: me, my son, his wife, and my granddaughter. I do my best not to intrude, not to be a burden. Truthfully, Im glad for the company.
But living together isnt just sharing a kitchen and a loo. Its about respect. Understanding that an older person has needs, routinesand yes, even the right to bake a pie. And now, a row over two eggs. Its not the first time: a misplaced pan, a borrowed saucepan, ingredients vanishing when Id planned to use them. I bite my tongue. But this time, I couldnt. Because its not about eggs, or fridges, or even pies.
Its about consideration. The hurt of spending a lifetime caring, feeding, raisingonly to be called “tight-fisted.” Never mind that *I* opened my home to them, shared everything, made do. Now Im meant to eat separately, live separately, keep to myself?
I know were different generations. They have their ways; I have mine. But family isnt about fridges. Or who ate what. Its respect, kindness, gratitude. I dont expect bows and curtsiesbut being called stingy? That stings. Deeply.
So now, Ive decided: I wont interfere. If they eat everything, so be it. If theres nothing left, Ill make do with toast. Eat together? Let them eat alone. But they should know this: its not because Im petty or spiteful. Its their choice. They wanted it this way. And me? Ill remember. And Ill learn from it.
Life teaches you that respect can slip away faster than its earnedbut a family shouldnt split over eggs. Or over anything, really.
