**Diary Entry A Mothers Struggle**
Retirement came three months ago. I say it calmly, but inside, its chaos. On one hand, no more waking at six, battling the Tube with aching knees, or enduring the bosss rants about misplaced paperwork. On the other, my pension is so meagre my pockets are thinner than my basil plant after a heatwave.
Then the family drama began.
One evening after dinner, as everyone lounged in blissful ignorancescrolling phones, laughing, carefreeI thought, *Do they even realise who pays for all this?* So I said, quite 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, as if pondering the absurdity.
My daughter, Emily, was first to recover:
*Rent*, Mum? This is *your* house!
Precisely, I replied. Which is why Im charging you. My pension barely covers tea and toast. You lot binge Netflix while Im stuck with Freeview reruns.
My son, Jamesself-appointed family solicitorcrossed his arms like a barrister. Mum, kids dont *pay* parents rent. Its unnatural!
Unnatural, I countered, is a thirty-year-old man still sleeping in the same room where he cuddled Paddington Bear and begged me to blow on his soup.
He opened his mouth, then shut it. What could he say?
The debate escalated. They hurled accusationsWere *family*! This is exploitation!while I countered with facts: This is the gas bill. This is the food you devour. When I mentioned the electricity, Emily actually crossed herself.
But I *cook*! she cried, as if that settled it.
Cook? I raised a brow. You mean that aromatic rice last week so underdone even Rex refused it? The dog who *eats socks*?
James switched tacticsemotional blackmail: Fine! Well leave! Youll be *alone*!
I adjusted my glasses, smiling like the Mona Lisa. Darling, youve been saying that for a decade. Shall I pencil in a date?
Silence again. Emily studied her phone. Rex flopped down, a neutral witness.
After UN-level negotiations, we reached a compromise: no rent*yet*. But theyd cover half the broadband and take the bins out daily.
A week later, the bins remain full. Presumably, theyre waiting for magic. When I remind them, they sulk like Ive demanded a kidney.
The funniest part? Their newfound *dignity*. They glide past me like Im Cromwell. Yesterday, I overheard Emily whisper to Rex: Look, boy, were under martial law. Mums gone feudal.
Rex sighed and sidled closer to her, the traitor.
Standing in the kitchen, I thought, *Feudal? Fair enough. But at least its feudalism with hot water and paid bills.*
At sixty, all I want is peace. Not luxury, not holidaysjust the certainty I can buy a coffee without guilt. Ive given them everythingtime, nerves, strength. No regrets. But sometimes I wonder if theyll ever learn: love isnt a free all-inclusive.
If they moan next month, Im ready. Ill print a proper tenancy agreementclauses for clean the hob, no dirty dishes, take laundry off the line by sunset. Let them argue *then*.
The free-lunch era is over. I may be retired, but Im not helpless. Ive got a house, a sense of humour, and a dog (usually) 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 take the bins out myself, watch telly without Netflix, and smile.
*Yes, perhaps I am a tyrant. But a tyrant with the lights on.*
