My children were outraged when I asked them for rentin their own home.
I retired three months ago. I say it calmly, but inside, its nothing short of a tempest. On one hand, I no longer have to wake at six, catch the bus with aching knees, or listen to my boss shout about “misfiled papers.” On the other, my pension turned out to be so meagre that my pockets grew thinner than the basil plant on my windowsill after a scorching summer.
And so began the family drama.
One evening after supper, when everyone sat at the table in blissful peace, I decided the moment had come. They chewed, laughed, scrolled through their phonescarefree, well-fed, content. And I thought, *I wonder if they realise someone pays for all this?* Then, quite calmly, I said:
“Well then, children 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 make sense of what hed just heard.
My daughter recovered first:
“What do you mean, rent, Mum? Its your house!”
“Precisely,” I replied, “because its my house. And my pension is so small that if I want anything tastier than bread and tea, Id have to sell the telly. You lot watch Netflix, while Im stuck listening to the news on repeat because I cant afford the subscription.”
My son, the eldest and self-appointed “family solicitor,” folded his arms and declared with the gravitas of a philosopher:
“Mum, children dont pay their parents rent. Its against nature!”
“Against nature,” I shot back, “is a thirty-two-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 mouth to argue, then shut it. What could he possibly say?
The debates begangestures, outrage, indignant cries of “were family!” and “this is exploitation!” I countered with calm reminders: “This is the gas bill,” and “This is the food you eat.” When I mentioned the electricity, my daughter even crossed herself.
“But I cook!” she cried, as if that settled it.
“Cook?” I asked. “Do you mean that fragrant rice last week so underdone even the dog refused it? And lets not forget, hes the one who chews socks.”
My son tried a different tacticblackmail:
“Fine, well move out! Then youll be alone!”
I took a deep breath, adjusted my glasses, and smiled like the Buddha himself:
“Love, when exactly do you plan to leave? Because Ive been hearing that for the past ten years.”
Silence again. My daughter looked away into her phone. The dog flopped onto the floor like a witness refusing to testify.
After lengthy negotiationsnearly diplomatic, on par with the UNwe reached a “compromise”: for now, I wouldnt charge rent. But theyd pay half the Wi-Fi and take out the bins daily.
A week passed. The bins, of course, remained untouched. I suppose theyre hoping the bags will teleport to the curb by midnight. And when I remind them, they pull wounded faces, as if Ive demanded a kidney.
The funniest part is how they move about the house nowslowly, with dignity, eyeing me like some sort of tyrant. Yesterday, I overheard my daughter whisper to the dog:
“Look, Buster, were living under a regime now. Mums gone feudal.”
The dog, it seemed, agreed, sighing before shuffling 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.*
At sixty, all you really want is a bit of peace. Not luxury, not grand adventuresjust the certainty that you can buy yourself a coffee without guilt. Ive given them my whole lifetime, nerves, strength. And I dont regret it. But sometimes, it feels like theyve never grasped that love doesnt mean an all-inclusive free pass.
If they start complaining again next month, Im ready. Ive got a plan. Ill print out a proper tenancy agreementcomplete with clauses like “clean the cooker,” “no dirty dishes left overnight,” and “take the laundry off the line before sunset.” Let them argue with that.
Because the days of free meals are over. And though Im a pensioner, 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 move out, Ill miss them. But at least Ill know I raised them to stand on their own two feet.
For now, Ill take the bins out myself, watch my telly without Netflix, and smile to myself:
“Yes, perhaps I am that tyrannical mother. But at least the electrics paid.”
