**Diary Entry A Pensioners Dilemma**
Retirement came three months ago. I say it calmly, but inside, its chaos. On one hand, no more waking at six, no more aching knees on the bus, no more boss shouting about “misplaced paperwork.” On the othermy pension is so meagre my pockets are thinner than the basil plant after a drought.
Then came the family drama.
One evening after dinner, as they lounged at the tablecontent, well-fed, scrolling through their phonesI decided it was time. “Do they even realise someone pays for all this?” I wondered. So, I took a breath and said, “Right then starting next month, Ill be charging you rent.”
Silence. Not just silencea vacuum. Even the fridge stopped humming. The dog froze mid-lick, as if pondering the weight of my words.
My daughter, Emily, recovered first. “Rent, Mum? But its your house!”
“Exactly,” I replied. “Its my house. My pension barely covers tea and toast. You lot stream Netflix while Im stuck with reruns of the news because I cant afford a subscription.”
My son, Jamesself-appointed “family solicitor”crossed his arms like a barrister and declared, “Mum, children dont pay rent to their parents. Its unnatural!”
“Unnatural,” I shot back, “is a thirty-year-old man still sleeping in the same room where he cuddled a teddy bear and begged me to blow on his soup.”
His mouth opened, then shut. What could he say?
The debate escalated. They hurled claims of “But were family!” and “This is exploitation!” I countered with “This is the gas bill” and “This is the food you eat.” When I mentioned the electricity, Emily crossed herself like Id invoked the devil.
“But I cook!” she protested, as if that settled it.
“Cook?” I raised a brow. “You mean that aromatic rice last week so underdone even the dog refused it? And thats saying somethinghe eats socks.”
James tried guilt. “Fine, well move out! Then youll be alone!”
I adjusted my glasses, smiling like the Buddha. “Love, when exactly is that happening? Ive heard it for a decade.”
Silence again. Emily buried herself in her phone. The dog flopped down, a neutral witness.
After negotiations worthy of the UN, we reached a “compromise”: no rentyet. But theyd cover half the Wi-Fi and take out the bins daily.
A week later, the bins remain untouched. Apparently, theyre waiting for magical midnight disposal. When I remind them, they look wounded, as if Ive demanded a kidney.
The funniest bit? How they tiptoe around now, casting me sidelong glances like Im some tyrant. Yesterday, I overheard Emily whisper to the dog, “Look, Alfie, were under martial law. Mums gone feudal.”
Alfie sighed and edged closer to her, as if in solidarity.
I stood in the kitchen, listening, and thought, *Feudal? Fine. But at least its feudal with hot water and paid bills.*
At sixty, all I want is a bit of peacenot luxury, not holidays, just the certainty I can buy a coffee without guilt. Ive given them everythingtime, energy, sanity. No regrets. But sometimes I wonder if theyll ever grasp that love isnt an all-inclusive free pass.
If they grumble next month, Im ready. Ill print a proper tenancy agreement: “Clean the hob,” “No dirty dishes,” “Take the laundry in before sunset.” Let them argue with that.
The days of free meals 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 leave, Ill miss them. But at least Ill know I raised them to stand on their own feet.
For now? I take the bins out myself, watch telly without Netflix, and smile.
*Yes, maybe I am that tyrannical mum. But at least the lights are on.*
