My Kids Were Furious When I Asked Them to Pay Rent — Even Though It’s My House

My kids were outraged when I asked them to pay rentin my own house.

I retired three months ago. I say it calmly, but inside, its pure chaos. On one hand, no more waking up at six, knees creaking as I dash for the bus, or listening to my boss screech about “misplaced paperwork.” On the other, my pension is so measly my pockets are thinner than my basil plant after a scorching summer.

And so began the family drama.

One evening after dinner, as everyone lounged at the table in blissful peace, I decided the moment had come. They chewed, laughed, scrolled through their phonescarefree, well-fed, relaxed. Meanwhile, I thought, *Do they even realise someones paying for all this?* Then I said, ever so sweetly:

“Right then, kids starting next month, Ill be charging you rent.”

Silence. Not just silencea void. Even the fridge stopped humming. The dog froze mid-paw, as if pondering the implications.

My daughter recovered first.
“Mum, what rent? Its *your* house!”

“Exactly,” I said. “Which is why Im charging you. My pension barely covers tea and toast. You lot binge Netflix while Im stuck rewatching the news because I cant afford a subscription.”

My son, the self-appointed “family lawyer,” folded his arms like a philosopher and declared,
“Mum, kids 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 once cuddled a teddy bear and begged me to blow on his soup.”

He opened his mouththen closed it. What could he say?

The debate ragedgestures, outrage, indignant cries of *”Were family!”* and *”This is exploitation!”* I countered with *”This is the electricity bill”* and *”Thats the food you just wolfed down.”* When I mentioned the Wi-Fi, my daughter crossed herself.

“But I cook!” she protested, as if that settled it.

“Cook?” I raised an eyebrow. “You mean that fragrant rice last week so undercooked even the dog refused it? And he 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.
“Darling, when exactly? Because Ive been hearing that for a decade.”

Silence again. My daughter stared at her phone. The dog flopped onto the floor, a neutral witness.

After lengthy negotiationspractically UN-level diplomacywe reached a “compromise.” No rentfor now. But theyd cover half the Wi-Fi and take out the bins daily.

A week later, the bins remain untouched. I suspect theyre hoping the bags will teleport to the curb at midnight. When I remind them, they look wounded, as if Ive demanded a kidney.

The funniest part? How they move around nowslow, dignified, eyeing me like Im a tyrant. Yesterday, I overheard my daughter whisper to the dog:
“See, Rufus, we live under a regime now. Mums gone feudal.”

The dog, bless him, sighed and sidled closer to her.

I stood in the kitchen, listening, and thought, *Feudalism? Fine. At least feudalism comes with hot water and paid bills.*

At sixty, all I want is a little peace. Not luxury, not holidaysjust the certainty I can buy a coffee without guilt. Ive given them everythingtime, nerves, energy. And I dont regret it. But sometimes I wonder if theyll ever grasp that love isnt a free all-inclusive resort.

If they moan again next month, Im ready. Ive drafted a proper tenancy agreement*”clean the hob,” “no dirty dishes,” “take laundry off the line before sundown.”* Let them argue with that.

The days of free lunches are over. I may be retired, 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 two feet.

For now? I take out the bins myself, watch telly without Netflix, and smile.
“Yep, I might be a tyrannical mum. But at least the lights are on.”