My kids were outraged when I asked them for rentin my own house.
I retired three months ago. I say it calmly, but inside, its a storm. On one hand, I no longer have to wake up at six, battle the Tube with creaky knees, or listen to my boss yell about “misfiled paperwork.” On the other, my pension turned out so measly my pockets are thinner than my basil plant after a heatwave.
Then came the family drama.
One evening after dinner, while everyone lounged in blissful peace, I decided the moment had come. They were chewing, laughing, scrollingcarefree, full, relaxed. And I thought, *I wonder if they 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-step, paw in the air, as if trying to process the betrayal.
My daughter recovered first:
“*Rent*, Mum? Its *your* house!”
“Exactly,” I said. “Which is why Im charging you. My pensions so small, if I want anything nicer than toast and tea, Id have to sell the telly. You lot watch 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 like some courtroom philosopher:
“Mum, kids dont *pay* their parents rent. Its unnatural!”
“Unnatural,” I shot back, “is a thirty-year-old man still sleeping in the same room where he once cuddled a teddy bear and begged me to blow on his soup.”
He opened his mouththen shut it. What could he say?
The debate raged. They hurled arguments like “Were *family*!” and “This is exploitation!” while I countered with “This is the gas bill” and “This is the food youre devouring.” When I mentioned the electricity, my daughter actually crossed herself.
“But I *cook*!” she cried, as if that settled it.
“Cook?” I raised a brow. “You mean that fragrant rice last week so underdone even the dog refused it? And that mutt eats socks.”
My son tried another tacticblackmail:
“Fine, well *leave*! Then youll be all alone!”
I took a deep breath, adjusted my glasses, and smiled like the Buddha himself:
“Love, when exactly are you planning to go? Because Ive been hearing that for a decade.”
Silence again. My daughter stared at her phone. The dog flopped down like a witness refusing to testify.
After marathon negotiationsUN-level diplomacywe reached a “compromise”: no rent for now. But theyd cover half the Wi-Fi and take the bins out daily.
A week later, the bins remain untouched. Probably hoping the bags will teleport to the dump at midnight. When I remind them, they look at me like Ive demanded a kidney.
The funniest part? How they stalk around nowslow, dignified, eyeing me like Im some tyrant. Yesterday, I overheard my daughter whisper to the dog:
“Look, Alfie, were living under a regime now. Mums gone feudal.”
The dog seemed to agree, sighing before sidling closer to her.
I stood in the kitchen, listening, and thought: *Feudalism? Fair enough. But at least its feudalism with hot water and paid bills.*
You know, at sixty, all you want is a bit of peace. Not luxury, not holidaysjust the certainty you can buy a coffee without guilt. I gave them everythingtime, nerves, energy. And I dont regret it. But sometimes I think theyve never grasped this: love doesnt mean an all-inclusive free pass.
If they moan again next month, Im ready. Ive drafted a proper tenancy agreementclauses for “clean the hob,” “no dirty dishes,” “take the washing in before sunset.” Let them argue with *that*.
Because the era of free lunches is over. And though Im retired, 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.
For now? I take the bins out myself, watch telly without Netflix, and smile to myself:
*Fine, maybe I am that tyrannical mum. But at least the lights are on.*
