Their son had always liked drawing.
His parents had encouraged this by continually providing sheets of A4 paper and as many coloured crayons as his heart desired. For a ten-year-old he was surprisingly talented. He was particularly fond of sketching buildings, mainly houses. On this occasion he was depicting what was obviously his home. The distinctive bay windows were recognisable features. He’d been working on it for some time when his father came into his room and looked over his shoulder, a thing he often did. This was partly through curiosity, but mainly because it gave him the opportunity to provide encouragement. Smiling, he recognised the house immediately. The boy, suddenly aware that his father was watching him draw, looked up.
“Do you like it?” the boy asked.
“Yes, I do. It’s great!” replied the father.
“Do you recognise it?”
“Of course, it’s our home.”
The boy nodded.
“The house is really good, and I can see you standing in the front garden,” said the father with a praising tone. He hesitated before asking, “Who are the people standing by the front door, they don’t look like mummy and daddy?”
“No. They’re not.”
“Oh! Who are they then?”
“Lodgers.”
“Lodgers?”
“Yes. I’m renting out the back room.”