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 absolute chaos. On one hand, I dont have to wake up at six anymore, fight for a seat on the bus with my knees aching, or listen to the boss scream about “the paperwork being filed wrong.” But on the othermy pension turned out to be so measly that my pockets are thinner than my basil plant after a scorching summer.
And thats when the family drama began.
One evening after dinner, while everyone sat at the table in blissful peace, I decided the moment had come. They were chewing, laughing, scrolling through their phonescarefree, well-fed, relaxed. And I thought, “I wonder if they realise someones paying 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 he too was trying to process what hed just heard.
My daughter was the first to snap out of it:
“Rent, Mum? Its your house!”
“Exactly,” I replied. “Its my house. And my pensions so tight that if I want something nicer than bread and tea, Id have to sell the telly. You lot watch Netflix while Im stuck with news reruns because I cant afford a subscription.”
My son, the eldest and self-appointed “family solicitor,” folded his arms and declared with the air of a philosopher:
“Mum, kids dont pay their parents rent. Its unnatural!”
“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 begged me to blow on his soup.”
He opened his mouththen shut it. What could he even say?
Then came the debates, the hand-waving, the outrage. They threw arguments like “Were family!” and “This is exploitation!” while I calmly countered with “This is the electricity bill” and “This is the food youre eating.” When I mentioned the water rates, my daughter even crossed herself.
“But I cook!” she cried, as if that settled it.
“Cook?” I asked. “You mean that fragrant rice last week that was so underdone even the dog refused it? And lets not forgetthat same dog eats socks.”
My son tried another tacticblackmail:
“Fine, well move out! Then youll be all alone!”
I took a deep breath, adjusted my glasses, and smiled like the Buddha:
“Son, when exactly are you planning to go? Because Ive been hearing that for the past ten years.”
Silence again. My daughter looked back at her phone, the dog flopped on the floor like a witness refusing to testify.
After lengthy negotiationsalmost diplomatic, UN-level talkswe reached a “compromise”: For now, I wouldnt charge rent. But theyd pay half the Wi-Fi and take the bins out every day.
A weeks passed. The bins, of course, are still untouched. I suppose theyre hoping the bags will teleport to the curb by midnight. And when I remind them, they pull wounded faces like Ive asked for a kidney.
The funniest part is how they move around the house now. Slowly, with dignity, eyeing me like Im some dictator. Yesterday, I overheard my daughter tell the dog:
“Look, Fido, were living under a regime now. Mums gone feudal.”
And the dog, bless him, seemed to agree, 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.”
You know, at sixty, all you really want is a bit of peace. Not luxury, not holidaysjust the reassurance you can buy a coffee without guilt. I gave them my whole lifetime, nerves, energy. And I dont regret it. But sometimes it feels like theyve never quite grasped it: love doesnt mean a free all-inclusive.
If they start moaning again next month, Im ready. Ive got a plan. Ill print out a proper tenancy agreementcomplete with clauses like “clean the hob,” “no dirty dishes left out,” and “take the washing in before sunset.” Then let them argue with that.
Because the days of free lunches are 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 move out, Ill miss them. But at least Ill know I raised them to stand on their own feet.
For now, thoughIll take the bins out myself, watch telly without Netflix, and smile to myself:
“Maybe I am a tyrant. But at least Im a tyrant with paid electricity.”
