Why Should I Cook for Everyone? It’s Just for Me and Annie Now!” – “What Do You Mean?” Nikita Fumed. – “Because in This Family, I’ve Learned It’s Every Man for Himself. So Live Like It!

In a small town in England, long ago, there lived a woman named Margaret. One morning, she lay in bed with a fever, her throat burning and her chest heavy. The thermometer read thirty-eight and seven. Her head throbbed as she tried to sit up.

“Mum, where’s my breakfast?” shouted her eldest daughter, Emily, barging into the bedroom without knocking. “I’ll be late for school!”

Margaret winced. “Emily, Im ill… Take something from the fridge.”

“Theres nothing! Only yoghurts for the little one!” Emily crossed her arms. “You always think of her first!”

From the nursery, baby Charlotte began to cry. Margaret forced herself up, legs trembling, the room spinning.

“Margaret, wheres my striped shirt?” called her husband, William, from the bathroom. “The blue one?”

“In the wardrobe, I think…”

“Its not there! Did you iron it yesterday?”

Margaret leaned against the wall. Shed spent the previous day tending to Charlotte, her fever ignored.

“No, I didnt have time.”

“Blast it! Ive got a meeting!” William slammed the bathroom door.

Charlottes cries grew louder. Margaret shuffled to the nursery and lifted her, the child clinging to her neck.

“Mum!” Emily yelled from the kitchen. “Theres nothing here! Not even bread!”

“Moneys on the table. Buy something on your way.”

“Im not stopping at the shop! Ive got a test! And anyway, its your job to feed us!”

Margaret said nothing. She carried Charlotte to the kitchen, pulled frozen sausages from the freezer, and set a pan on the stove.

“And make pasta!” Emily commanded, eyes glued to her phone.

As breakfast cooked, William emerged in a wrinkled shirt. “Had to wear this. Look like a tramp. Thanks for that.”

Margaret stayed silent. Speaking hurt, and she had no energy left for explanations.

“Its Lucys birthday today,” Emily announced, piling pasta onto her plate. “Im going to hers after school. Back late.”

“Emily, Im really unwell. Could you stay home? Help with Charlotte?”

“As if! Ive waited months for this party! And I never asked for a sister! Thats your problem!”

Emily grabbed her bag and slammed the door behind her.

William ate his breakfast, scrolling through news on his phone.

“William, could you come home early? I feel terrible.”

“Cant. Office drinks after work. Responsibilities, you know.”

“But Im ill…”

“Take some paracetamol. Youre not bedridden. Manage somehow.”

He pecked her sweaty forehead and left.

Margaret was alone with three-year-old Charlotte. The child demanded attention, food, play. Margaret moved mechanically, her strength draining.

By lunch, her fever had climbed to thirty-nine. She fed Charlotte somehow, put her down for a nap, and collapsed onto the sofa. Her head pounded, her heart raced.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Emily: “Mum, send money for Lucys present. Now!”

Margaret didnt reply. She couldnt even lift the phone.

William returned first that evening, tipsy and cheerful, carrying a bag from the shop.

“Got beer and crisps! Match is on!” He flopped onto the sofa and turned on the telly.

“William, feed Charlotte, please. I cant get up.”

“That bad?” He finally looked at her. “Youre all red.”

“High fever. All day…”

“Well, call the doctor if its that serious. Wheres Charlotte?”

“In her cot. Shell wake soon.”

“Fine, Ill feed her. When she wakes.”

Half an hour later, Charlotte cried for her mother. William reluctantly took her.

“Why are you crying? Come to Daddy!”

But the child reached for Margaret. William faltered.

“Margaret, she wants you!”

“Give her a biscuit from the cupboard. And juice.”

“Where? I cant find anything!”

Margaret forced herself up. The room swayed. She fetched a biscuit and poured juice. Charlotte quieted.

Emily returned past midnight. Margaret, still feverish, hadnt slept.

“Why didnt you reply?” Emily snapped. “I had to borrow money from Lucys mum! So embarrassing!”

“Emily, Ive had a fever all day…”

“So? Couldnt you pick up the phone? Two seconds!”

The next morning, William shook her awake.

“Margaret, get up! Ive got work, and Charlottes screaming!”

Her fever had broken, but weakness remained. She dressed Charlotte.

“What about breakfast?” William asked.

“Make it yourself. Im taking Charlotte to nursery.”

“Me? I cant cook! And Im late!”

“Learn.”

Something in her tone silenced him. He grumbled and stomped to the kitchen.

When Margaret returned, the house was a messdirty dishes, scattered clothes, unmade beds. Normally, shed clean immediately. Not today.

She showered, drank tea, and went to bed.

That evening, the family gatherednot for dinner, but around an empty table.

“Mum, whats for dinner?” Emily asked.

“I dont know. Whatever you make.”

“What?” Emily gaped.

“Im not cooking for everyone anymore. Just for Charlotte and myself.”

“Why on earth not?” William scowled.

“Because in this family, Ive realised, everyones out for themselves. So live like it!”

“Margaret, whats got into you?” William tried to hug her, but she stepped back.

“Im tired of being a servant! Yesterday proved Im just unpaid labor to you.”

“Mum, I said sorry!” Emily lied.

“No, you didnt. Neither did your father. No one even asked how I was.”

“Fine, sorry!” Emily huffed. “Are we just meant to starve?”

“The fridge is full. Youve got hands. Cook.”

The first week was chaos. Emily threw tantrums. William grumbled and slammed doors. Margaret held firmcooking only for herself and Charlotte, washing only their clothes, tidying only the nursery.

“Mum, my jeans are filthy!” Emily wailed.

“The washing machines there. Powders in the cupboard.”

“I dont know how!”

“Learn. Instructions are on the lid.”

William wore wrinkled shirts to work, ate at cafés. Money vanished.

“Margaret, this is ridiculous! Eating out every day!”

“Cook at home. Cheaper.”

“I dont know how!”

“Try YouTube. A million recipes there.”

The house descended into squalordirty dishes, dusty floors. Margaret saw it but didnt intervene. She kept only the nursery clean.

Two weeks in, Emily attempted pasta. Forgot salt, overcooked itinedible mush.

“Mum, help!”

“No. Learn.”

“Youre my mother! Youre supposed to!”

“I care for minors. Cooking gourmet meals for you isnt my duty. Bread, milk, cerealyou wont starve.”

William tried frying eggs. Burnt them. Tried againedible.

“Look, Margaret! I made eggs!”

She nodded and returned to her book. No praise, no fuss.

Three weeks later, the house was a wreck. Emily sobbed over piled laundry.

“Mum, please! Just this once! Ive got nothing clean for school!”

“You were home all yesterday. Couldve washed them.”

“I was doing homework!”

“And I work from home, cook, clean, tend to Charlotte. I manage.”

“Youre an adult!”

“And you want adult privileges? Late nights, money for fun? Then act like one.”

By months end, resistance crumbled. Emily learned to wash, cook simple meals, tidy. William mastered eggs, pasta, even basic soup.

One evening, Margaret returned from the park with Charlotte. The kitchen table was set, dinner ready. William and Emily stood guiltily.

“Mum, we made dinner,” Emily murmured. “I did salad. Dad roasted a chicken.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said calmly.

“Mum, forgive us,” Emily whispered. “We didnt realise… how hard it was for you.”

“Margaret, well do better,” William added. “Honestly. Well help.”

Margaret studied them. They hadnt changed overnight. But fear of losing hertheir unpaid laborhad sunk in.

Now they knew: cross her, and she might leave them to dirty dishes and crumpled shirts.

“Alright,” she said. “But rememberIm not a servant. Im a person. A family member. Treat me like one.”

“We understand,” Emily nodded. “Truly.”

Dinner was quiet. But the air had shifted. Emily cleared the table. William washed dishes. Small things. But to Margaret, a victory.

That night, tucking Charlotte in, she whispered:

“Youll grow up different. Independent. Not expecting the world to serve you. And youll marry