My kids were outraged when I asked them to pay rentin their own childhood home.
I retired three months ago. I say it calmly, but inside, its pure chaos. On one hand, no more waking at six, squeezing onto buses with creaky knees, or enduring the bosss rants about “misplaced paperwork.” On the othermy pension is so measly my pockets are thinner than my basil plant after a heatwave.
And then came the family drama.
One evening after dinner, as everyone lounged in blissful ignorance, I decided the moment had arrived. They were chewing, laughing, scrollingcarefree, well-fed, oblivious. I thought, I wonder if they realise someones footing the bill for all this? So, I casually dropped the bombshell:
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 dangling, as if also processing the shock.
My daughter recovered first:
Rent, Mum? This is *your* house!
Exactly, I replied. Which is why I get to charge for it. My pensions so tight, if I fancy anything nicer than toast and tea, Id have to flog the telly. You lot binge Netflix while Im stuck with reruns of the news because I cant afford a subscription.
My son, the self-appointed family solicitor, crossed his arms and declared with the gravitas of a philosopher:
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 debates, the hand-waving, the outrage. They hurled gems like Were *family*! and This is exploitation! while I calmly countered with This is the gas bill and Thats *my* food youre inhaling. When I mentioned the electricity, my daughter nearly crossed herself.
But I *cook*! she cried, as if that settled it.
Cook? I raised an eyebrow. You mean that fragrant rice last week so underdone even the dog refused it? And lets not forgetthat dog eats *socks*.
My son switched tactics: emotional blackmail.
Fine! Well move out! Then youll be all alone!
I took a deep breath, adjusted my glasses, and smiled like the Buddha.
Darling, when exactly is this grand departure? Ive been hearing it for a decade.
Silence again. My daughter studied her phone like it held lifes answers. The dog flopped down, playing neutral witness.
After negotiations worthy of the UN, we reached a compromise: no rentfor now. But theyd cover half the Wi-Fi and take the bins out daily.
A week later, the bins remain untouched. Presumably, theyre waiting for the bags to teleport to the curb at midnight. When I remind them, they look at me like Ive demanded a kidney.
The best part? Their new melodramatic strutting. They move like oppressed aristocrats, casting wounded glances my way. Yesterday, I overheard my daughter whisper to the dog:
Look, Alfie, were living under a regime now. Mums gone full feudal.
Alfie, traitor that he is, sighed and snuggled closer to her.
I stood in the kitchen, listening, and thought: *Feudal? Fair enough. But at least its feudalism with hot water and paid bills.*
At sixty, all you want is a bit of peace. Not luxury, not globe-trottingjust the confidence to buy a coffee without guilt. Ive given them everythingtime, nerves, energy. And I dont regret it. But sometimes, I wonder if theyll ever grasp that love isnt a free all-inclusive resort.
If they moan next month, Im ready. Ive drafted a proper tenancy agreement: clauses for clean the hob, no dirty dishes, take the washing in before sunset. Let them argue with *that*.
The days of free lunches are over. I may be a pensioner, but Im not helpless. Ive got a house, a sense of humour, and a dog whos *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.
Yep. Im officially that tyrannical mum. But at least the lights are on.
