“Have you got the money ready?” asked the woman, around 45 years old, as she unlocked the door with her own key.

Many years ago, my boyfriend and I rented a room from an elderly lady in London. We’ve lived with her for about eight months now.
We shared her small fridge, though her shelves were always bare. The only thing she kept in there was a pot of watery porridge. She used soap only for washing clothes, and bought the cheapest, foul-smelling cooking oil. Her shoes by the front door were patched and worn, and the whole flat seemed to whisper of hardship and need.
Our landlady never pried into our affairs; from dawn to dusk, she trudged through the neighbourhood collecting stray bottles and cans for recycling, or put up posters on notice boards. Each Sunday, she would treat herself to a feast of overripe fruit from the marketwhatever was left behind at the end of the day.
Her plight moved me to tears. And when she had a visitor, I wept at the unfairness of her situation.
“Have you got the money ready?” asked a woman of about forty-five, who barged in with her own key.
“Yes, my dear, here you are,” replied our landlady quietly.
“That’s not enough. Tomorrow I’ll bring my daughter,” the woman snapped.
“Whose clothes are these? Do you have people staying with you?”
“I’m letting the spare roomhow else can I live? I give you my entire pension,” the old lady began to explain.
“Well, let me have a look at these tenants, then. Ive heard they might be up to no good,” the woman declared, throwing open our door.
“So, who do we have here?”
My boyfriend and I stared in disbelief at this invasion of our paid-for space.
“Shut the door from your side, madam,” I said, trying to mask my frustration.
“And who are you to tell me what to do? Im the lady of this house! From now on, you pay me directly. Heres my number, and my bank details,” she declared, stomping into the room with her shoes on. She dropped two slips of paper on our table. “Dont be late with the rent, or Ill kick you out! When did you last pay?”
“Please, leave her be, daughter, I beg you,” pleaded our landlady. “Ive only just paid off the electricity bill or they’d have cut it off. How could I manage without any light?” Her voice cracked with grief.
“Dont take their rent anymorehave them send it to me. Ill bring my daughter tomorrow, just as I promised,” the woman concluded, slamming the door as she left.
Our landlady sat down on a chair in the corridor and wept. I went over and put my arms around her, trying to soothe her.
“Dont cry. Everything will turn out alright,” I told her.
“Make me a cup of tea, please,” she asked weakly.
Id never seen her drink ordinary teashe would brew herself a cup from dried raspberry and currant leaves she kept hanging in the kitchen.
With trembling hands she accepted the mug, and began to confide in me.
“I raised my daughter all on my ownmy husband left one day and never returned. My soul and heart went into her upbringing, but she grew up proud and always chasing men. She eventually married at thirty-five and gave me a granddaughter. But her husband is stingy and miserly. I tried to help them and look after my granddaughter.”
“But what started as help soon became a duty. She takes my pension, and if I refuse, she stops letting me see my granddaughter. I thought renting out my room would at least let me buy food, but now she wants that money as well. Oh, what sort of daughter did I raise?”
She broke down in fresh tears, forgetting about her tea. My heart ached for her.
“And now she wants to move me outsell the house and find me a tiny flat somewhere on the outskirts. Or maybe leave me on the streets. Shes starting to say things like that. If I refuse, she uses my granddaughter as a threat. Id sell my home just for a few hours with that child,” she sobbed.
When my boyfriend returned home from his university lectureshe was in his fourth year studying lawI asked what could be done to help our landlady.
We made the rounds of the neighbours, who had all heard her daughter yelling for money. We talked with them, gathered statements, and called on them as witnesses for a future hearing. We helped the landlady write an application to court for visitation rights with her granddaughter.
We suggested too that she get a letter from her doctor for the courtwho knew what her daughter might say?
We won the case, and now our landlady gets to see her granddaughter legally once a fortnight, for three hours. Her modest pension is safe, and her daughter can no longer use it to blackmail her. Proper food has returned to her tablemeat and fresh fruit are no longer strangers in her kitchen. We even help her fix up the old placenothing major, but a bit of paint here, a new bit of wallpaper there, to replace the ancient patterns peeling off.
In gratitude for our help, she refuses to take rent from us for the room. But we give it to her anywayshe deserves it.
How could anyone treat their own mother this way? To take away her scant pension, to ignore what the woman who raised you eats? Its true, some children show no gratitude to their mothers.
Cherish your parents! Remember, you only exist because of them.