I never thought I’d find myself in this position — feeling invisible in my own home. When my son Brian and his wife Emily moved in to save money, I welcomed them with open arms. I’ve always believed that family supports each other, and our home had space. At first, it was nice having everyone together — dinners were lively, laughter filled the rooms, and I loved cooking meals that brought us all to the table. But over time,

things started to shift. I noticed the meals I cooked disappeared faster. I’d spend the afternoon making a big pot of spaghetti or a cake, only to come back and find nothing left. Not even a slice for me. My daughter Ruby, who’s in college and working so hard, would come home hungry and disappointed, asking, “Mom, did you save me any?” And too often, the answer was no. It broke my heart. We weren’t just dealing with a lack of food — we were dealing with a lack of respect. I was doing all the grocery shopping and cooking,