Some nights I cook dinner. No one eats. Other nights I don’t cook, and suddenly everyone’s famished. I used to feel guilty. Now I’m wondering… was it ever about hunger? Or have I just been serving up comfort disguised as casserole?

Dinner usually comes together around five. Not gourmet, but intentional. Nourishing. Familiar. I call out, “Dinner’s ready,” and I hear the usual: “I’m not hungry.” “I ate a late lunch.” “I’ll eat later.” Later never comes. The meal sits in the fridge for three days, barely touched. I don’t eat the same meals they do. I lean toward tofu and chickpeas. They lean toward things that come with dipping sauce. So I’m not cooking once. I’m cooking twice. Every day. Meanwhile, they have no problem raiding the fridge at 3 a.m. after hours of gaming, just not for the food I made. So, why do I feel guilty when I don’t cook?

Every Sunday, I make a list. I sit down. I ask: “What would you like for dinner this week?” My twenty-year-old contributes ideas, and he actually eats the food I make about 95% of the time. My other two? “I don’t know.” And my automatic reply has become: “Can you tell me what aisle to find that in?” Because no matter how vague their input is, there’s still an expectation that dinner will appear—warm, balanced, and preferably nothing with chickpeas.

My sons aren’t helpless. They can cook burgers on the grill with flair, and they insist I try their experimental breakfast bites in the morning. But most nights? They opt for restaurant food. Chile’s. Chipotle. Domino’s. Restaurant decisions that bypass the fridge I thoughtfully stocked. I’ve spent years trying to instill solid eating habits—not perfection, just some respect for ingredients. I don’t expect them to eat chickpeas. But when they ask for something specific, I do expect they eat it. But when effort is met with indifference and fast food wins the dinner vote, I find myself asking: Who exactly am I cooking for?

At this point, I need a sign above the stove: “Mom’s Kitchen: Open nightly from 5:00 to 5:04. No refunds. No substitutions. No appreciation necessary.” Or maybe just: “It’s Fend For Yourself Night.” Because while they chase down tacos and mozzarella sticks, I’m in the kitchen Googling “ways to make chickpeas fun.” Truthfully, I’m not bitter. I’m just blissfully off duty.

To the parents out there, when did you stop making dinner for your older kids? Do you still feel guilty when you don’t cook, even when they can and do feed themselves? Is it expectation, tradition, or habit withdrawal?

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