**Diary Entry**
Sometimes life throws situations at you where you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Yesterday was one of those days, and I’m still shaking from it. I decided to bake a pie—a rare treat for the family—with the warm weather lifting my spirits and my granddaughter playing in the next room. Everything was ready, except the eggs. I opened the fridge and… nothing. I’d set them aside just hours ago, but now they were gone.
Naturally, I asked my daughter-in-law—perhaps she’d moved them. What followed was unbelievable. She snapped, “What, are you begrudging your own granddaughter eggs? She had an omelette this morning!” My chest tightened with hurt. “You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered. Harsh, perhaps, but what else do you say when you’re accused of stinginess over eggs *you* bought?
Then came the ultimatum: “I’ll buy my own fridge, and everyone can stick to their own food.” Imagine—living under one roof, in the same flat, with separate fridges. It’s not family anymore; it’s a boarding house. And all because I—a mother and grandmother—dared to ask about missing eggs.
I’m not young. I live modestly, counting every penny. This flat is all I have, scraped together through sheer luck. I clip coupons, hunt for bargains, while they say they’re “too busy” for such things. My son works dawn till dusk just to keep them afloat, no hope of their own place yet. So we squeeze into this little three-bed: me, my son, his wife, and their little girl. I stay out of their way, grateful for the company, even if it’s strained.
But living together isn’t just shared spaces—it’s respect. It’s remembering that an old woman is still a person, with her own needs, habits, and yes, even the right to bake a pie. Yet here we are, arguing over two eggs. It’s not the first time—misplaced pans, missing ingredients—I bite my tongue. But today, I couldn’t. Because it’s not about eggs, or fridges, or pies.
It’s about how they see me. The pain of a lifetime spent caring, giving, feeding, only to be called “selfish.” *I* invited them here. Shared my home, pooled what little we have. And now? They want separate meals, separate lives—as if I’m some intruder.
We’re generations apart, I know. They have their ways, I have mine. But family isn’t about fridges or who ate what. It’s respect. Kindness. Gratitude. I don’t expect bows, but being branded as greedy? That cuts deep.
So I’ve resolved: no more interference. If they eat it, they eat it. If nothing’s left, I’ll make do with toast. Family dinners? Let them dine alone. Not out of spite, but because *they* chose this. They wanted it. And me? I’ll remember. And I’ll learn.
