**”I Don’t Care Anymore!”**
Charlotte stormed across the cramped living room, arms flailing. “Mum, how much longer are we going to put up with this? My friends are already laughing at me!”
“Mum, it’s leaking again! Again!” she shrieked, bursting out of the bathroom with soaked hair and a towel clutched in her hands. “I told you something was wrong with this flat!”
“Keep your voice down—the neighbours will hear!” hissed Eleanor, dropping her mop and rushing over. “Where’s it coming from?”
“Everywhere! The tap, the shower, even under the sink—there’s a puddle!” Charlotte flailed, flicking water down the hallway. “I *said* we shouldn’t have rented this dump!”
Eleanor trudged into the bathroom, eyes tracing the water creeping across the tiles before sinking onto the stool. A month ago, they’d sold their quiet suburban house to move into this two-bedroom flat in central London—closer to work, shops, the hospital. Now?
“Mum, why are you just sitting there? We have to *do* something!” Charlotte hovered in the doorway, pulling her dressing gown tighter.
“And what exactly?” Eleanor sighed. “Call a plumber? Out of our own pockets? Again? Third time this month.”
“What about the landlord? Make *her* pay—it’s her property!”
“I’ve tried. She claims we’re ‘using the plumbing wrong.’ How do you *misuse* a tap?” Eleanor wrung out the mop. “Go eat. You’ll be late for work.”
“Eat *what*? The stove’s broken again!” Charlotte threw her hands up. “Yesterday it took me an hour to boil pasta. Today—nothing!”
Eleanor exhaled. The cooker had been temperamental since day one, but the landlord, Margaret, insisted it worked fine—they just needed to “get used to it.” Used to burners that lit on a whim and an oven with a mood of its own.
“Fine, I’ll ask Lydia next door to boil the kettle,” Charlotte muttered, yanking on jeans.
“No! We’re not begging from neighbours again,” Eleanor snapped. “First butter, then sugar. They’ll think we’re paupers.”
“So what? Go to work starving?”
Eleanor met her daughter’s glare, a familiar lump rising in her throat. Why had they ever moved? Their old house had its quirks, but at least they’d lived in peace. Here, every day brought a fresh disaster.
—
By lunch, Charlotte returned, scowling. “Well? Any progress?”
“None. The landlord says it’s our fault.”
“*Our* fault? How?” Charlotte’s voice climbed. “Because her flat’s falling apart?”
“Charlotte, *lower your voice*.”
“I don’t *care*!” She paced, fists clenched. “Mum, this is unbearable. My mates joke I live like a squatter—no water, no power, a cooker that’s a fire hazard!”
“Your friends’ parents *buy* flats. We rent.”
“Then maybe we should buy too!” Charlotte blurted. “We’ve got savings from the house—”
“*What* savings?” Eleanor’s laugh was brittle. “Your surgery wiped most of it.”
Charlotte fell silent. The operation had cost a fortune—the whole reason they’d moved closer to the hospital. A temporary fix, they’d thought. Now they were trapped.
“Could we… find another place?” Charlotte ventured.
“With what money?” Eleanor pointed to the stack of bills. “Rent, utilities, your meds. We’re barely scraping by.”
Charlotte thumbed through them and whistled. “Bloody hell…”
“You weren’t meant to see that. It’s my job to worry.”
“Right.” Charlotte chewed her lip. “…Mum, do you regret selling the house?”
Eleanor hesitated. Did she? Of course. Their little terrace had been cramped but *theirs*. A garden. Neighbours who knew their names. Here, they were strangers in a glossy, hollow shell.
“Yes,” she admitted. “But it’s done. We’ll make do.”
—
That night, the lights died mid-argument.
“Brilliant!” Charlotte groaned. “Fuse box again?”
Eleanor checked—no tripped switches. Just another wiring flaw. She dug out a torch.
“Mum, this isn’t living,” Charlotte said quietly in the dim glow. “We’re not Victorians.”
“What’s your solution?”
“Dunno. Citizen’s Advice? Report the landlord?”
“On what grounds? We signed the lease.”
“But she *lied*! Said everything worked!”
“Prove it.”
Charlotte slumped. They were stuck. No money to leave, no leverage to demand repairs.
When the power returned, Eleanor cooked on the one functioning burner.
“Remember moving day?” Charlotte mused. “You said we’d ‘finally live properly.’”
Eleanor stirred soup. “I remember.”
“I thought you were right. Fancy postcode, everything walking distance. Felt like a fairy tale.”
“Turned out to be a horror story,” Eleanor muttered.
—
Days later, Charlotte burst in with news. “There’s a tenants’ rights service! They inspected a mate’s flat—landlord *had* to fix everything!”
Eleanor brightened. “Really?”
“Yep! We just need proof.” She grinned. “I’ll get the address tomorrow.”
But at dawn, a crash and shouts from downstairs woke them.
“Eleanor! Your ceiling’s *pouring*!”
Water gushed from the bathroom, flooding the hallway.
“Turn the mains off!” Charlotte yelled, grabbing towels.
“Won’t budge!”
“Call emergency services!”
The landlord’s response? *”Sort it yourselves.”*
Charlotte dialled the housing authority. “Send someone *now*.”
—
By morning, a plumber shook his head at the corroded pipes. “These should’ve been replaced years ago.”
“Who pays?” Eleanor asked.
“Legally? The landlord. But check your lease.”
The clause was murky, but the housing inspector’s verdict wasn’t: Margaret had a month to comply or face penalties.
For weeks, Margaret raged—threats, excuses. Then, silence. New pipes. Rewired sockets. A cooker where all four burners lit.
One evening, Charlotte turned them all on, just because she could. Blue flames flickered evenly.
“…Maybe moving wasn’t a mistake,” she said softly.
Eleanor raised a brow.
“We learned. Fought back.” Charlotte smiled. “Got stronger.”
Eleanor watched her—no longer the girl who’d wilted after surgery, but someone who’d stood her ground.
Perhaps the move *had* broken things. But only to rebuild them properly.
