“Have You Got the Money Ready?” asked the woman, about 45, as she unlocked the door with her own key.

My boyfriend and I had let a room from a certain old lady. Wed been living with her for eight months now.
We shared the fridge; her shelves were always bare. The only thing that sat there was a pot of oats boiled in water. Soap only for washing laundry, oil the cheapest kind, always with a sharp smell. The shoes in the hallway were patched up. The whole flat hummed of want.
Our landlady kept well out of our affairs; she would leave at sunrise and only return at night, wandering the streets collecting cans and pasting up posters. Each Sunday, shed have a strange sort of feast with bruised fruit salvaged from the market.
Her situation wrung tears from my eyes. And when a certain guest visited, I found myself sobbing over the unfairness of it all.
Have you got the money ready? The woman who opened the door with her own key was around forty-five.
Yes, my dear, here you go, take it, our landlady replied softly.
Its not enough. Ill bring my daughter tomorrow.
Whose clothes are these? Have you visitors?
Im letting the room, Ive got to live somehow I give you my whole pension, the old lady started explaining.
Well, I think Ill have a look and see who these tenants are. Ive heard theyre con artists, the woman said as she pushed open the door to our room.
Lets see, who do we have here?
Her shameless charge into our properly paid-for space bowled me over.
Woman, close the door from your side this instant!
And who are you to tell me what to do in my own house? I run things here! Youll pay me directly, this is my phone number, and heres my bank details. She marched into the room, muddy boots and all, left two pieces of paper on our table. Dont be late, or Ill chuck you out! When did you last pay your rent?
Please, leave her alone, our landlady begged. I paid off the bill for the lights with this, else they would have cut me off. How would I survive the dark? Her eyes brimming with tears.
Dont you take another penny from them, theyll pay me now. Thats that. Like I said, Ill bring my daughter tomorrow.
She swept out, leaving our landlady to sink down on a hallway chair and weep. I went over and put my arms around her, trying to soothe her.
Now, dont cry. Itll all come right in the end.
Be a dear and make me some tea.
Yet I never saw her drink ordinary tea; she would brew herself cups of raspberry or blackcurrant leaves, hung in bunches drying from the kitchen rafters.
She took the mug, hands trembling, and her story poured out:
I raised my daughter alone after her father left and never returned. I put all I had into it, heart and soul. She grew up proud and restless, always on the hunt for new men. Finally, she married at thirty-five and gave me a granddaughter. But her husband is terribly tight-fisted. I tried to help them.
What began as charity turned compulsory. Now, she takes my pension, and if I hesitate to hand it over, she wont let me see my granddaughter. I thought letting a room would at least mean I could afford food, but she wants that too. What did I raise her to become?
She broke down sobbing, forgetting her tea. I felt desperately sorry for her.
And now shes planning to move me out to sell this flat and dump me in some pokey bedsit on the edge of town. Maybe even leave me homeless. She threatens me every time, with promises Ill never see my granddaughter if I resist. But Id sell my home for even a glimpse of my precious girl.
When my boyfriend got home he’s a fourth-year law student I asked if we could do anything to help our landlady.
We visited the neighbours, those who had overheard her daughter shouting over money, gathered their accounts, and arranged for them to serve as witnesses in court. Then we drafted a request to secure her rights to visit her granddaughter.
We also advised her to get statements from her doctor for the court, just in case her daughter tried anything.
We won. Now our landlady sees her granddaughter properly, once every fortnight for three hours, all under the protection of the law. Her pension is hers again her daughter cant hold it over her any longer. She buys meat for herself, keeps a bowl of sound fruit on the table most days. We help her with the odd bit of DIY a lick of paint here, replacing threadbare wallpaper there. Not major work, but enough to make her home cosier.
To thank us, she refuses to take our rent but we still press the pounds into her hand, just so she has that bit extra.
How could anyone treat their own mother like that? Take the tiny pension of the woman who bore you and fed you, and never care what she might eat herself. Such cold-hearted ingratitude toward a mother.
Cherish your parents! You owe every moment of yourself to them.