My Kids Were Furious When I Asked Them to Pay Rent — in Their Own Family Home

My children were outraged when I asked them for rentin my own home.

I retired three months ago. I say it calmly, but insideits a storm. On one hand, no more waking at six, squeezing onto the bus with aching knees, or listening to the boss shout about “misfiled paperwork.” But on the other, my pension turned out so meagre that my pockets are thinner than my basil plant after a scorching summer.

And thats when the family drama began.

One evening, after supper, while everyone lounged at the table in blissful peace, I decided the moment had come. They were chewing, laughing, scrolling through their phonescarefree, full, content. And I thought: *I wonder if they realise who pays for all this?* So I said, calmly:

“Well then, kids from next month, Ill be charging you rent.”

Silence. Not just silencea vacuum. Even the fridge stopped humming. The dog froze mid-step, paw suspended, as if trying to make sense of it too.

My daughter was the first to recover:
“Rent, Mum? But its *your* house!”

“Exactly,” I replied, “which is why Im charging you. My pensions so small, if I want something tastier than toast 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,” crossed his arms and declared with the gravity of a philosopher:
“Mum, kids dont pay rent to their parents. 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 hot soup.”

He opened his mouththen shut it. What could he possibly say?

The debate spiralledgestures, outrage, accusations. They hurled arguments like “But 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 even crossed herself.

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

“Cook?” I raised a brow. “You mean that fragrant rice last week so underdone even the dog refused it? And he eats socks, by the way.”

My son switched tacticsblackmail:
“Fine, well move out! Then youll be all alone!”

I took a deep breath, adjusted my glasses, and smiled like the Buddha:
“Love, when exactly *are* you planning to leave? Ive been hearing that for a decade.”

Silence again. My daughter stared at her phone; the dog flopped down like a witness refusing to testify.

After long negotiationsnear-diplomatic, UN-level talkswe reached a “compromise”: I wouldnt charge rent. *Yet.* But theyd cover half the Wi-Fi and take the bins out daily.

A week passed. The bins, of course, remain untouched. I suppose theyre waiting for the bags to teleport to the curb at midnight. And when I remind them, they pull faces like Ive demanded a kidney.

The funniest part? How they move through the house nowslow, dignified, eyeing me like some tyrant. Yesterday, I overheard my daughter whisper to the dog:
“Look, Alfie, were living under a regime now. Mums gone feudal.”

The dog, it seems, agreed, sighing and shuffling closer to her.

I stood in the kitchen, listening, and thought: *Feudalism? Fine. But at least its feudalism with hot water and paid bills.*

You know, at sixty, all I want is a little peace. Not luxury, not holidaysjust the certainty I can buy a coffee without guilt. I gave them my whole lifetime, nerves, strength. 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 tenancy agreementclauses for “clean the hob,” “no dirty dishes,” “take the washing in before sunset.” Let them argue with *that.*

Because the era of free lunches is over. And though Im a pensioner, 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 two feet.

For now? I take the bins out myself, watch telly without Netflix, and smile quietly:
*Yes, maybe I am that tyrannical mum. But the lights are on.*