When my landlord, Amanda, threw my belongings in the trash and locked me out without warning, I thought I’d lost everything. But barely 24 hours later, I saw her dragging her own furniture out onto the sidewalk as she faced eviction herself. It was karma. Pure, undeniable karma.
Ever since I turned 18, I dreamed of living independently. My parents begged me to stay home, but I was determined to make my own way in the world.
“Evie, why the rush?” Mom would ask, worry etched on her face. “Stay until you’ve saved enough to build a safety net.”
Dad was more direct. “The real world is expensive, little one. Our door is always open.”
A man standing in his house | Source: Midjourney
But I had made my decision.
“I have to do this,” I told them. “I’ll figure it out.”
That was ten years ago, and since then I’ve been something of a nomad, moving from one location to another.
In college, I shared cramped apartments with roommates who never washed their dishes.
After graduation, I moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment that at least offered some privacy, but not much else.
As my career progressed and my bank account grew healthier, I decided it was time to find something better. Something that felt like a real home.
A studio | Source: Pexels
“Finding the perfect apartment is harder than finding the perfect partner,” my friend Jen joked when I told her I was apartment hunting again.
And to be honest, she wasn’t wrong. You can hire the best real estate agent, scroll through countless listings, and still end up with a nightmare landlord. Unfortunately, landlords don’t come with reviews or warning labels.
When my real estate agent showed me this cute little apartment in a quiet neighborhood with tree-lined streets, I thought I’d hit the jackpot.
A residential building | Source: Midjourney
“The owner is Mr. Fred,” my real estate agent explained as I walked around the premises, already mentally arranging my furniture. “He’s owned this building for decades.”
“Can I meet him?” I asked, already imagining a kind elderly gentleman who took pride in maintaining his property.
“Actually, his daughter takes care of everything,” he replied. “Her name is Amanda. She lives next door and manages all the rentals in her father’s buildings.”
A real estate agent standing in an empty apartment | Source: Midjourney
I met Amanda that same day. She was a woman in her forties with a stern face and a no-nonsense attitude.
“My father is semi-retired,” she explained crisply when we met. “I handle all property matters on his behalf. Any problems, questions, or concerns are addressed directly to me.”
His tone left no room for debate.
I signed the lease (with Fred’s name, I realized later) and moved in the following weekend.
A person signing a document | Source: Pexels
The location was perfect.
It was a fifteen-minute drive from my office, a short walk from a cute coffee shop, and in a neighborhood quiet enough that I could sleep with the windows open.
I had been living peacefully for about three months when my washing machine started making this strange noise.
At first it was just a slight clicking noise during the spin cycle, but it gradually became more disturbing.
A person putting towels in a washing machine | Source: Pexels
It wasn’t an emergency, but I wanted to fix the problem before it turned into a full-blown disaster. After all, that’s what responsible adults do, isn’t it? Fix small problems before they become big ones.
I was at my desk, buried in spreadsheets for an upcoming presentation, when I decided to call Amanda during my lunch break.
The phone rang several times before going to voicemail.
“Hello Amanda, this is Evie from apartment 2B. My washing machine is making a strange noise. Could you arrange for someone to come and take a look? Thanks!”
I then sent him a message giving him a more detailed description of the noise.
A woman using her phone | Source: Pexels
I received no reply that day. Nor the next day.
By the end of the week, my work had reached crisis level, and I was drawn into emergency strategy meetings that lasted late into the evening.
Between the chaos at work and taking out dinners eaten at my desk, I forgot about the washing machine. I simply avoided using it, piling my dirty clothes into the baskets and promising myself I’d deal with them when things calmed down.
Baskets with clothes | Source: Pexels
It wasn’t until a week later that I received a message from Amanda.
She’s coming by in an hour to check the washing machine.
I glanced at the time. 4:30 PM. I was still at work, and I didn’t plan on leaving for at least an hour.
I’m at work. Can we set up a meeting for tonight or tomorrow? I texted back.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then nothing. No response.
A woman using her phone | Source: Pexels
Miraculously, my meeting was canceled and I arrived home on time. A few minutes later, I heard a knock at my door.
“It’s me, Amanda,” she called, her knuckles rapping harshly on the wood. “Open the door!”
“I’m coming!” I replied.
Amanda stood there with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently.
“I don’t have all day,” she said by way of greeting.
She walked in without another word, heading straight into the laundry room as if she’d rather be anywhere else.
A laundry room | Source: Pexels
I followed her, feeling strangely guilty, as if I had disturbed her by having a malfunctioning household appliance.
“It makes a very loud grinding noise during the spin cycle,” I explained, walking past her to turn the dial to that setting. “Listen.”
Sure enough, the machine began to shake violently, producing a horrible metallic noise that filled the small space.
Amanda frowned slightly, watching the machine rattle for a moment before shrugging.
Close-up of a washing machine | Source: Pexels
“It’s not a big deal,” she said. “The machine is just old. You can still use it.”
I stared at her, waiting to hear more, but she was already turning away.
“Is that all?” I asked, trying to keep the disbelief from my voice. “It feels like something broke inside.”
“Those old models are noisy,” she said dismissively. “Everyone complains, but they last forever. Just don’t overload it.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue.
“All right,” I said. “Thanks for checking.”
She nodded and left without another word.
That was the end of the story. At least, that’s what I thought.
A woman who walks away | Source: Midjourney
Two weeks later, I was working from home when I decided to finally tackle my mountain of laundry. I sorted the clothes, added detergent, and started the machine before returning to my laptop in the living room.
Twenty minutes later, I heard a strange gurgling noise. I looked up from my screen just in time to see water seeping under the bathroom door and spilling onto my hardwood floor.
Water on the ground | Source: Midjourney
“No, no, no!” I gasped, jumped, and waded through the growing puddle to the laundry room.
Water gushed from the bottom of the machine, spilling onto the floor faster than I could comprehend what was happening. I slammed the switch to the off position and grabbed every towel I owned, throwing them in a futile attempt to stem the flood.
That’s when people started knocking on my door.
“Hey! There’s water coming through my ceiling!” shouted an angry man’s voice.
A door handle | Source: Pexels
I opened the door to find my downstairs neighbor, a middle-aged man I’d only greeted in passing, standing there in water-stained clothes.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, horrified. “My washing machine just flooded. I’m trying to clean it now.”
“Trying isn’t enough!” he fumed. “My ceiling is in ruins! Who is your landlord?”
I immediately called Amanda. I didn’t answer.
So, I texted him.
EMERGENCY. The washing machine has flooded. Water damage in my apartment and on the ground floor. Immediate help is needed.
When there was no response after ten minutes, I gave his number to my furious neighbor.
An angry man | Source: Midjourney
He left, slamming the door as I returned to the damp disaster that had become my apartment.
***
The next afternoon, I came home from work exhausted and dreaming of a hot bath to soak away the stress of the day. Instead, I found Amanda standing at my door, arms crossed and expression cold.
“You have to leave,” she yelled as I approached. “I threw your things in the trash. You flooded our neighbors. This isn’t your home anymore.”
An angry woman | Source: Midjourney
“What? You told me the machine was fine! I asked you to fix it!”
“You’ve clearly misused it,” she snapped. “The damage is extensive, and I don’t want irresponsible tenants in my father’s buildings.”
“Your father’s buildings that you manage so well?” I retorted, anger rising to replace my shock. “Let me talk to him.”
“He trusts my judgment,” she said coldly. “The locks have been changed. Your lease is terminated for property damage.”
“It’s illegal! You can’t throw me out without notice!”
She rolled her eyes and walked back into my apartment, closing the door in my face.
A closed door | Source: Midjourney
For a moment, I stood there, staring at the door I couldn’t open. Then reality hit me… my stuff. Where were my stuff?
I ran around the side of the building to the dumpster area and stopped dead in my tracks. There, scattered in and around the trash cans, were my belongings. Clothes overflowed from hastily packed bags, books were piled haphazardly, and framed photos lay on the floor.
Goods in the trash | Source: Midjourney
“No way,” I muttered, picking up a broken picture frame. It contained a photo of my parents on their thirtieth wedding anniversary. The glass was cracked, leaving a jagged line between them.
Tears of rage burned in my eyes, but I forced myself to stay calm. Crying wouldn’t help me now. I needed to think.
I took out my phone and started taking pictures and videos of everything, including scattered belongings, broken items, and my keys not working anymore.
So I started salvaging what I could, loading piles of stuff into my car.
Backlighting of a car at night | Source: Pexels
By nightfall, I had salvaged what I could. I drove to my friend Jen’s apartment, where she welcomed me with open arms.
“This can’t be legal,” she said after I told her everything. “She can’t just throw out your stuff and change the locks.”
“It’s not,” I confirmed, opening my laptop. “And I’m about to make him regret playing with me.”
The next morning, I began my research.
A woman using her laptop | Source: Pexels
Amanda had always presented herself as the owner, but the lease I signed listed her father, Mr. Fred, as the landlord. I found his number in the county property records and called him directly.
The phone rang three times before an older man’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Mr. Fred? My name is Evie. I’m a tenant in your building. Or at least I was until your daughter illegally evicted me yesterday and threw my things in the trash.”
A silence ensues. Then, “My daughter did what?”
A man talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney
I told him about the washing machine problem, Amanda’s dismissal of the problem, the flooding, and the illegal eviction. I explained that I had video evidence from my apartment’s security camera showing Amanda dismissing the washing machine problem, as well as photos of my discarded belongings.
“Furthermore,” I said firmly, “my lease is in your name, not hers, which means she had no legal authority to terminate my rental agreement. If I’m not reinstated in my apartment and compensated for my irrecoverable items, I’ll have no choice but to take legal action.”
“I… I had no idea,” he stammered. “This is… this is unacceptable.”
A man talking on the phone about his daughter | Source: Midjourney
“I agree,” I said firmly. “What do you plan to do?”
“Give me until tomorrow morning,” he replied. “I need to speak with Amanda and assess the situation.”
The next morning he called me back to make me an offer.
He would compensate me for my damaged belongings, reinstate my lease, and cover the cost of all repairs. The washing machine would be replaced, and any water damage in my apartment would be professionally repaired.
A set of tools in an apartment | Source: Unsplash
In return, I agreed not to take legal action.
“One last thing,” he added. “I want to personally apologize. Amanda was… she took liberties with my properties that I wasn’t aware of. That’s over now.”
That afternoon, I parked at the complex, ready to return to my apartment. That’s when I saw Amanda dragging her furniture out onto the sidewalk.
Her father had evicted her from the neighboring apartment, which she occupied rent-free while collecting rent from the other tenants.
A person moving | Source: Pexels
I caught her eye for a moment as I walked past her. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it.
I said nothing and simply walked past her to the apartment that was rightfully mine, where Fred was waiting for me with a new set of keys and paperwork for a significant reduction in my rent for the next six months.
“The new washing machine will be delivered tomorrow,” he assured me, handing me the keys. “And I will personally take care of all property management from now on.”
A man holding a key | Source: Pexels
As I closed the door behind him and looked around my apartment, I couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes karma works in mysterious ways.
And sometimes it works exactly as it should.
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This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the story. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims regarding the accuracy of events or character portrayals and are not responsible for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and all opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the opinions of the author or publisher.
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