**Diary Entry**
I retired three months ago. I say it calmly, but inside its pure chaos. On one hand, no more waking at six, cramming onto the Tube with aching knees, or listening to the boss shout about “misfiled paperwork.” On the other, my pension turned out so measly my pockets are thinner than the basil pot after a scorching summer.
And thats when the family drama began.
One evening after dinner, as they lounged at the tablecarefree, full, scrolling their phonesI decided the moment had come. They chewed, laughed, swiped, while I thought, *Do they even realise someones footing the bill for all this?* So I said, calmly:
“Right then, kids starting next month, Ill be charging you rent.”
Silence. Not just silencea vacuum. Even the fridge stopped humming. The dog froze mid-lick, paw in the air, as if weighing the news.
My daughter Emma recovered first:
“*Rent*, Mum? This is your house!”
“Exactly,” I said. “My house. My pensions so tight, if I want more than toast and tea, Id have to flog the telly. You lot binge Netflix while Im stuck with reruns of *Pointless* because I cant afford a subscription.”
My son James, the self-appointed “family solicitor,” crossed his arms like a barrister and declared:
“Mum, kids dont *pay* their parents rent. Its unnatural!”
“Unnatural,” I shot back, “is a thirty-two-year-old bloke still sleeping in the same room where he cuddled a teddy bear and begged me to blow on his soup.”
He opened his mouththen shut it. What could he say?
Cue the dramatics: flailing arms, gasps, cries of “Were *family*!” and “This is exploitation!” I countered with “This is the gas bill” and “This is the food youre inhaling.” When I mentioned the electricity, Emma crossed herself like Id invoked the devil.
“But I *cook*!” she yelled, as if that trumped all.
“Cook?” I said. “You mean that aromatic rice last week so underdone even Biscuit refused it? The same dog whod eat a flip-flop.”
James switched tacticsguilt:
“Fine, well leave! Then youll be *alone*!”
I took a deep breath, adjusted my glasses, and smiled like the Dalai Lama:
“Love, whens that happening? Ive heard it for a decade.”
More silence. Emma studied her phone like it held state secrets. Biscuit flopped down, a neutral witness.
After negotiations worthy of the UN, we reached a “compromise”: no rentyet. But theyd cover half the Wi-Fi and take the bins out daily.
A week later? The bins remain. They must think the bags apparate to the curb at midnight. When I remind them, they look wounded, as if Ive demanded a kidney.
The funniest bit? How they tiptoe around now, eyeing me like Im Cromwell reincarnate. Yesterday, I overheard Emma whisper to Biscuit:
“Look, mate, were under martial law. Mums gone full feudal.”
Biscuit, ever the diplomat, sighed and edged closer to her.
I stood in the kitchen, listening, and thought: *Feudal? Maybe. But at least its feudal with hot water and paid bills.*
At sixty, you crave just one thing: peace. Not luxury, not holidaysjust the certainty you can buy a coffee without guilt. I gave them my lifetime, patience, energy. No regrets. But sometimes I wonder if theyll ever grasp: love isnt a free all-inclusive.
If they moan next month, Im ready. Ill print a proper tenancy agreement: “Clean the hob,” “No mouldy mugs,” “Take the washing in before sunset.” Let them argue with *that*.
The free-lunch eras over. I may be retired, but Im not helpless. Ive got a house, a sense of humour, and a dog whos always on my side.
And you know what? If they ever *do* leave, Ill miss them. But at least Ill know I raised them to stand on their own feet.
For now? I haul the bins myself, watch *Midsomer Murders* on repeat, and chuckle:
“Right then. Maybe I *am* a tyrannical mum. But at least the lights are on.”
