My children were outraged when I asked them to pay rentin our own home.
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, rush for the bus with aching knees, or listen to my boss shout about “misfiled paperwork.” On the other, my pension is so meagre that my pockets are thinner than my basil plant after a scorching summer.
And then, the family drama began.
One evening after dinner, as everyone sat around the table in blissful peace, I decided the moment had come. They were chewing, laughing, scrolling through their phonescarefree, full, content. I thought, *I wonder if they realise who pays for all this?* So, I calmly said:
“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 what hed just heard.
My daughter was the first to snap out of it.
“Rent, Mum? But this is your house!”
“Exactly,” I replied. “Which is why I can charge rent. My pensions so tight that if I want anything fancier than bread 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,” folded his arms and declared with all the gravitas of a philosopher:
“Mum, children dont pay their parents rent. Its unnatural!”
“Whats unnatural,” I shot back, “is a thirty-two-year-old man still sleeping in the same room where he once cuddled a teddy bear and asked me to blow on his soup.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. What could he say?
The debates begangestures, outrage, accusations. They hurled arguments like “Were family!” and “This is exploitation!” while I calmly countered with “This is the gas bill” and “This is the food youre eating.” When I mentioned the electricity bill, my daughter actually crossed herself.
“But I cook!” she cried, as if that settled it.
“You call that cooking? Last weeks aromatic rice was so underdone even the dog refused itand he eats 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.
“Love, when exactly do you plan to go? Because Ive been hearing that for the past decade.”
Silence again. My daughter stared at her phone. The dog flopped onto the floor like a witness refusing to testify.
After lengthy negotiationsnearly diplomatic, like a UN summitwe reached a “compromise”: I wouldnt charge rent. But theyd cover half the Wi-Fi and take out the bins every day.
A week later, the bins remain untouched. They must be hoping the bags teleport to the dump at midnight. And when I remind them, they pull faces like Ive asked for a kidney.
The funniest part? How they move around the house nowslowly, with dignity, eyeing me like Im some sort of tyrant. Yesterday, I overheard my daughter whisper to the dog:
“Look, Alfie, were living under a regime now. Mums gone full feudal.”
The dog, wisely, just sighed and curled up closer to her.
I stood in the kitchen, listening, and thought, *Feudalism? Fine. But at least its feudalism with hot water and paid bills.*
At sixty, all I want is a little peace. Not luxury, not holidaysjust the assurance that I can buy myself a coffee without guilt. Ive given them my whole lifetime, nerves, energy. And I dont regret it. But sometimes, I wonder if theyll ever understand: love doesnt mean all-inclusive for free.
If they complain next month, Im ready. Ive drafted a proper rental agreementcomplete with clauses like “clean the hob,” “dont leave dirty dishes,” and “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 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 feet.
For now, I take out the bins myself, watch telly without Netflix, and smile to myself:
*Fine, maybe I am a tyrannical mum. But at least the electrics paid.*
