Together with my boyfriend, we rented a room from an elderly lady. Weve been living with her in her little London flat for eight months now.
We share the fridge, though her shelves were always nearly bare. The only thing that ever seemed to live in there was a pot of watery porridge. She used laundry soap for everything, only ever bought the cheapest, rather pungent oil, and her shoes by the front door were patched so many times they hardly held together. The flat just exuded poverty.
Our landlady never meddled in our lives. She seemed to be out all day, walking the streets, picking up empty cans or pinning up notices for odd jobs. Every Sunday, shed have her little feastsoft, overripe fruit shed picked up from the market, almost ready for the bin.
I felt such a sharp sadness for her, tears pricking my eyes at the thought. The day a visitor arrived for her, I found myself quietly weeping at the unfairness of it all.
Have you got the money ready? asked the woman, about my mums age, who let herself in with a key.
Yes, Emily. Here, take it, our landlady replied softly.
Its not enough. Ill bring Charlotte round tomorrow.
Whose clothes are these? Are you having guests?
Ive let the spare room, I have to live somehow. I give you my whole pension, she tried to explain.
Well then, lets see the guests youve got. Ive heard theyre nothing but trouble, said the woman abruptly, opening the door to our room.
So, who do we have here, then?
Her brash intrusion onto what wed honestly paid for genuinely took my breath away.
Excuse me, could you please shut the door behind you?
And who are you to tell me what to do? Im the lady of this house! Now, youll pay me directly. Heres my phone number, and my bank details, she said pointedly, stepping into the room in her muddy shoes and laying two bits of paper on the table. And dont be late, or youre out! When did you last pay rent?
Emily, please leave her be, our landlady pleaded, on the verge of tears. I paid off the electricity bill as well, otherwise they said theyd cut it off. How could I live without lights?
No more rent from you. Let them pay directly to me. Thats all. Ill bring Charlotte by tomorrow, as I said.
The woman left, and our landlady slumped onto a chair in the hallway, sobbing. I went to comfort her, taking her gently in my arms.
Come on, dont cry. Itll be alright.
Could I have a cup of tea, please?
Id never seen her make real tea, just some odd blend of dried currant and raspberry leaves strung up in the kitchen. No proper tea bags in sight.
She took the mug with shaking hands and began to tell me her story.
I raised my daughter alone, you know. My husband left one day and never came back. I poured everything into raising her. She grew up difficult, always chasing men. Married very late, at thirty-five, and finally gave me my granddaughter. But her husband is terribly stingy, always counting his pennies. So, of course, I did what I could for them. Helped every way I knew.
But somehow, my help stopped being voluntary. She takes my pension, and if I refuse, she threatens to keep my granddaughter away. I rented the room just so I could put decent food on the table, but she wants that as well. Where did I go wrong with her?
She gave in to tears again, forgetting her tea. My heart ached for her.
Now she wants me outwants to sell the flat, put me in a poky little bedsit on the edge of town. Maybe shell just put me out on the street entirely. She says as much sometimes. If I refuse, she threatens me with never seeing Charlotte again. Id sell everything, just for a few hours with my precious girl.
That evening, when my boyfriend returned from his lectureshes in his final year of lawI asked what could be done? How could we help this elderly lady?
We spoke to the neighbours, whod often overheard the daughters cruel demands for money. Together, we gathered witnesses and prepared statements for a hearing. Then we helped our landlady submit a legal request for proper visitation rights to see her granddaughter.
We also suggested she get a doctors letter for the courtno telling what the daughter might claim.
In the end, we won. The court granted regular, official visits: once a fortnight, three hours at a time. No more threats, no more holding the pension over her head. These days, our landlady can eat proper food, meat and fruit, not just leftovers. We help her with little repairs, painting or swapping out ancient wallpaperno big jobs, but what we can manage.
She wanted to refuse our rent in thanks, but we still give it to her, almost by force if needed.
It baffles me, trulyhow can anyone treat their own mother that way? Stealing the last bit of her pension, not caring if the woman who raised you goes hungry? Such brazen ingratitude.
Love your parents, always. You only exist because of them.
