I can't imagine if I were the landlord's son.

Sleeping until naturally waking up every day, sending a message in the group at the end of the month saying "Rent paid," and the money collected is enough for me to lie around for another month.
No need to go to work, no need to clock in, no need to watch the boss's face.
When a tenant asked if I could lower the rent by two hundred, I said no, because I also need to make a living.
Last year, there was a tenant, a single mother.
She lived in the smallest room, the kitchen was converted from a balcony, and it was as hot as a steamer in summer.
She paid rent on time every month, never late.
Once her daughter had a fever, she held the child downstairs waiting for a Didi ride in the middle of the night.
I was smoking on the balcony and saw her squatting under the streetlamp, wrapped in a thin blanket.
I didn't go down.
The next day, I asked the agent to raise the rent by two hundred, citing that prices around had gone up.
Later, I had a car accident, my right leg was amputated, and I was bedridden and couldn't get up.
My mom said that if the rental house was not taken back first, you could move in, at least it's on the first floor.
I said that someone was still living there.
She said that the single mother heard about your accident, found a new place to move out, and even paid an extra month's rent, saying you needed money for your leg treatment.
When she left, she left a box of milk in the old non-refrigerated fridge in the kitchen.
There was a note stuck on the fridge door, handwritten in three lines: "Remember to drink the milk."
The fridge isn't cooling; it probably needs a heat sink replacement.
When she wrote this, she might have just finished a night shift, still holding a fever patch bought from the convenience store downstairs.
Now I can stand up with a crutch.
That box of milk has been in the kitchen unopened all along.
Yesterday, I moved it to the balcony and found a torn-off calendar paper at the bottom of the box, on which she had casually written the wattage of the light bulbs she replaced when cleaning the public area each month.
The oldest line was about the foyer light, dated the day we moved in.
At that time, her daughter hadn't had a fever yet, and I hadn't learned how to be someone who doesn't charge rent.