When my landlord Amanda heartlessly tossed my belongings into the trash and locked me out of my own apartment without warning, I thought I had lost everything. But just twenty-four hours later, I stood across the street, arms folded, watching her struggle to drag her own furniture to the curb. Eviction notices fluttered on the building door. That was karma—pure, undeniable, and well-deserved.
Ever since I turned eighteen, I had one goal: to live on my own. My parents begged me to stay home a little longer.
“Evie, why rush?” Mom would say, her brow furrowed with worry. “Stay until you have enough saved up for emergencies.”
Dad, ever the practical one, put it bluntly. “The real world is expensive, kiddo. Our door is always open. Don’t be in such a hurry to struggle.”
But I was stubborn.
“I need to do this,” I told them with absolute certainty. “I’ll be fine.”
That was ten years ago. Since then, I had bounced from one rental to another, experiencing every kind of landlord imaginable—from the kind but forgetful elderly man who never fixed anything to the overly involved lady who treated tenants like children.
During college, I shared cramped apartments with roommates who thought washing dishes was optional.
After graduation, I upgraded to a tiny one-bedroom. It wasn’t much, but at least I had privacy.
As my career progressed, I decided it was time for something better—something that truly felt like home.
“Finding the perfect apartment is harder than finding the perfect partner,” my friend Jen joked when I told her I was searching again.
She wasn’t wrong. You can scroll through endless listings, hire the best realtors, and still end up in a nightmare situation. Unfortunately, landlords don’t come with warning labels.
Then I found it—a charming little apartment in a peaceful neighborhood with tree-lined streets and a coffee shop within walking distance. I thought I had struck gold.
“The owner is Mr. Fred,” my realtor explained as I wandered through the space, mentally placing my furniture. “He’s had this building for decades.”
“Can I meet him?” I asked, picturing a kind, elderly man who took pride in his property.
“Actually, his daughter handles everything now. Her name is Amanda. She lives next door and manages all his rentals.”
I met Amanda later that day. She was a stern-faced woman in her forties with a no-nonsense attitude.
“My father is semi-retired,” she explained briskly. “I handle all property matters. Any issues, questions, or concerns come directly to me.”
There was something about her tone—something final, as if she dared me to question her authority.
I signed the lease that day. The paperwork had Fred’s name on it, something I barely noticed at the time.
The first three months were peaceful. The apartment was close to work, the neighborhood was quiet, and I could finally sleep with my windows open.
Then my washing machine started making a strange noise.
At first, it was just a small rattle, but over time, it became a loud, screeching sound that made my whole apartment shake.
I decided to call Amanda.
“Hi Amanda, it’s Evie from 2B. My washing machine is making a really weird noise. Can you have someone check it? Thanks!”
I followed up with a text, describing the problem.
No response. Not that day. Not the next.
By the end of the week, work had become a nightmare, and I barely had time to think about the washing machine. I simply avoided using it, letting my laundry pile up.
A week later, Amanda finally texted me:
Coming by in an hour to check washing machine.
It was 4:30 p.m. I was still at work.
I quickly texted back: I’m at work. Can we schedule for tonight or tomorrow?
She read the message but didn’t reply.
By some miracle, my meeting got canceled, so I rushed home. A few minutes later, there was a loud knock on my door.
“It’s me, Amanda. Open up.”
She walked in without a greeting, heading straight for the laundry closet as if I had personally inconvenienced her.
“It makes a loud grinding noise during the spin cycle,” I explained, turning it on to demonstrate.
The machine immediately started rattling violently.
Amanda frowned but only shrugged. “It’s just old. It still works.”
“That’s it?” I asked, surprised. “It sounds like something’s about to break.”
“These older models are noisy. Just don’t overload it.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue. “Fine. Thanks for checking.”
That was the end of it. Or so I thought.
Two weeks later, I finally did my laundry. Twenty minutes in, water seeped under the bathroom door, spilling into my apartment.
“No, no, no!” I gasped, rushing to shut off the machine.
Then came the pounding on my door.
“Hey! There’s water coming through my ceiling!” an angry voice yelled.
My downstairs neighbor stood there in soaked clothes, looking furious.
“I’m so sorry! My washing machine just flooded—”
“Who’s your landlord?!” he demanded.
I called Amanda. No answer. So I texted her.
EMERGENCY. Washing machine flooded. Water damage to my apartment & downstairs. Need immediate help.
She never responded.
The next afternoon, exhausted and frustrated, I arrived home to find Amanda waiting for me.
“You’re out,” she snapped. “I put your stuff in the trash. The locks have been changed.”
“WHAT?! That’s illegal!” I shouted. “You can’t just throw me out!”
She smirked. “I just did.”
I ran to the dumpsters. My belongings—clothes, books, even framed pictures—were scattered around like trash.
Tears of rage burned my eyes, but I pulled out my phone and documented everything.
Then I found Fred’s number in the property records and called him.
“Mr. Fred, I was your tenant. Your daughter illegally evicted me and threw out my belongings.”
There was a pause. Then, “My daughter did WHAT?!”
I laid it all out—Amanda’s neglect, the washing machine, the flood, and her illegal eviction.
“I have evidence,” I finished. “Either I get my apartment back and compensation for my damages, or I take legal action.”
Fred was horrified. “Give me until tomorrow.”
By morning, he called back.
“Evie, I am so sorry. You can move back in today. I’ll cover all damages and give you a rent reduction for six months. Amanda is no longer in charge.”
That afternoon, I returned—and saw Amanda dragging her furniture to the curb.
Her father had evicted her.
She looked up, and for a moment, our eyes met. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then she looked away.
I said nothing. I simply walked past her, back into my home.
Karma had done its job.
