Ever since I turned eighteen, I dreamed of living on my own. My parents thought I was rushing into adulthood too quickly, but I was determined to prove I could handle it.
“Evie, there’s no need to hurry,” my mom would say, worry written all over her face. “Stay home, save up, and move out when you’re fully ready.”
Dad was more blunt. “The real world is expensive, kid. But if things ever get tough, you can always come back.”
But I was young and stubborn. “I need to do this,” I told them. “I’ll be fine.”
And for years, I was.
I hopped from one apartment to another, experiencing everything from terrible roommates who never washed dishes to tiny one-bedrooms with paper-thin walls. Eventually, as my career advanced and my savings grew, I decided it was time to upgrade to a real home—a place I could feel comfortable in.
“Finding the perfect apartment is harder than finding the perfect partner,” my best friend, Jen, joked. And honestly? She wasn’t wrong.
When my realtor showed me a charming little apartment in a peaceful neighborhood, I thought I had struck gold. The place was cozy, the streets were lined with trees, and it was close to my office.
“The owner is Mr. Fred,” my realtor explained. “He’s had this building for decades.”
“Can I meet him?” I asked, already picturing a kind old man who took care of his tenants.
“Actually, his daughter handles everything now. Her name’s Amanda. She lives next door and manages all the rentals.”
I met Amanda that same day. She was a sharp-faced woman in her forties with an expression that said she had no patience for nonsense.
“My father is semi-retired,” she told me, her voice clipped and businesslike. “I handle all property matters. Any issues, questions, or concerns come directly to me.”
I signed the lease (Fred’s name was on it, though I didn’t think much of it at the time) and moved in the following weekend.
For the first three months, everything was perfect. The neighborhood was quiet, the apartment was exactly what I wanted, and I could even walk to my favorite coffee shop.
Then the washing machine started making a weird noise.
At first, it was just a little rattle, but soon it sounded like the whole thing was about to fall apart. Wanting to fix the problem before it got worse, I called Amanda.
The phone rang and rang before going to voicemail.
“Hi Amanda, it’s Evie from apartment 2B. My washing machine is making a strange noise. Could you send someone to check it out? Thanks!”
I followed up with a text. No response. Not that day, not the next, not even by the end of the week.
Work got crazy, and I barely had time to think about laundry, let alone a broken machine. I just stopped using it, figuring I’d deal with it when I had time.
Finally, a week later, I got a text:
Coming by in an hour to check washing machine.
It was 4:30 p.m. I was still at work.
I texted back: I’m at work. Can we schedule for tonight or tomorrow?
I saw the three dots appear, then disappear. No response.
By a stroke of luck, my meeting was canceled, and I made it home just in time. A few minutes later, there was a sharp knock at my door.
“It’s me, Amanda! Open up!”
When I opened the door, she stood there with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently.
“I don’t have all day,” she said.
Without another word, she marched inside and went straight to the laundry closet. I followed, feeling like I had somehow inconvenienced her by having a broken appliance.
“It makes a loud grinding noise,” I explained. “Listen.”
I turned it on, and within seconds, the machine rattled violently, screeching like it was about to explode.
Amanda frowned slightly, then shrugged. “That’s not a big issue. It’s just old. You can still use it.”
I stared at her. “That’s it? It sounds like something’s broken inside.”
“These older models are noisy,” she said dismissively. “They last forever. Just don’t overload it.”
I had no energy to argue. “Fine. Thanks for checking.”
She nodded and left.
Two weeks later, I finally tackled my growing mountain of laundry. I started the machine and went back to work on my laptop in the living room.
Twenty minutes later, I heard a strange gurgling noise.
Then I saw water seeping under the bathroom door.
“No, no, no!” I gasped, sprinting to the laundry closet. Water was gushing out of the machine like a busted fire hydrant, flooding the floor. I grabbed towels, but it was no use. The water spread too fast.
Then came the furious knocking on my door.
“Hey! There’s water coming through my ceiling!” an angry voice shouted.
I opened the door to find my downstairs neighbor standing there, his clothes soaked and a deep scowl on his face.
“I am so sorry,” I stammered. “The washing machine just—”
“Who’s your landlord?!” he barked.
I called Amanda. No answer. Texted her. No response.
So I gave my neighbor her number. He stormed off, while I went back to cleaning the mess.
The next afternoon, I came home from work only to find Amanda waiting at my door.
“You’re out!” she yelled. “I put your stuff in the trash. You flooded the neighbors. You’re done here.”
“What?! You told me the machine was fine! I asked you to fix it!”
“The damage is too much,” she snapped. “I won’t have irresponsible tenants in my father’s buildings. Your lease is terminated.”
“That’s illegal! You can’t just throw me out without notice!”
She rolled her eyes and slammed the door in my face.
Panicked, I ran around the side of the building and found my belongings scattered in and around the dumpsters. My clothes were tossed into garbage bags, books stacked carelessly, and my framed photos were shattered.
Furious but determined, I documented everything with photos and videos. Then I called Mr. Fred.
“Your daughter illegally evicted me and threw my belongings in the trash,” I told him. “I have proof. And by the way, my lease is in your name, not hers. She had no authority to kick me out.”
Silence. Then, “She did what?”
Long story short, Fred was furious. By the next morning, he called back with an offer:
- I could move back in immediately.
- He would compensate me for my damaged belongings.
- The washing machine would be replaced, and all repairs covered.
- Amanda? She was officially fired from managing his properties.
When I arrived, I saw her dragging her furniture to the curb.
Her father had evicted her.
We locked eyes for a brief moment. She looked like she wanted to say something, but I just smiled and walked past her into my apartment.
“The new washing machine arrives tomorrow,” Fred told me, handing over my new keys. “And from now on, I’ll be managing things myself.”
As I shut the door behind him, I couldn’t help but grin.
Sometimes, karma takes its time.
And sometimes, it works instantly.
