When my landlord Amanda thrashed my clothes in the trash and locked me out without warn:ing, I thought I had lost everything. However, just 24 hours later, I watched her dragging her own furniture to the curb as she dealt with eviction herself. That was karma.
Ever since I turned 18, I had this dream of living independently.
As my career developed and my bank account grew healthier, I decided it was time for living in my house.
“Finding the perfect apartment is harder than finding the perfect partner,” my friend Jen joked.
And to be fair, she wasn’t wrong.
When my realtor showed me this cute little apartment in a quiet neighborhood with tree-lined streets, I thought I’ would find a dream house.
“The owner is Mr. Fred,” my realtor explained.
“He’s owned this building for decades.”
“Can I meet him?” I asked.
“Actually, his daughter handles everything,” he replied.
“Her name is Amanda. She lives next door and manages all the rentals in her father’s buildings.”
I met Amanda that same day.
“My father is semi-retired,” she explained.
“I handle all property matters on his behalf. Any issues, questions, or concerns come directly to me.”
I signed the lease (with Fred’s name on it, I later realized) and moved in the following weekend.
The location was perfect.
It had been about three months of happy living when my washing machine started making that weird noise.
The phone rang several times before going to voicemail.
“Hi Amanda, it’s Evie from apartment 2B. My washing machine is making a strange noise. Could you arrange for someone to take a look at it? Thanks!”
I followed up with a text message, giving her a more detailed description of the noise.
No response came that day. Or the next.
It wasn’t until a week later that I got a message from Amanda.
By some miracle, my meeting got canceled, and I reached home on time.
“It’s me, Amanda,” she called out
“Open the door!”
“Coming!” I called back.
Amanda stood there with arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently.
“I don’t have all day,” she said by way of greeting.
“It makes a really loud grinding noise during the spin cycle,” I explained.
“That’s not a big issue,” she said. “The machine’s just old. You can still use it.”
“That’s it?” I asked, trying to keep the disbelief out of my voice. “It sounds like something’s broken inside.”
“These older models are noisy,” she said dismissively.
“Everyone complains, but they last forever. Just don’t overload it.”
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks for checking.”
Two weeks later, I was working from home when I decided to finally tackle my mountain of laundry.
Twenty minutes later, I heard a strange gurgling sound. I looked up from my screen just in time to see water seeping under the bathroom door and spreading across my hardwood floor.
“No, no, no!” I choked.
Water was gushing from the bottom of the machine, pouring onto the floor faster than I could process what was happening.
That’s when the pounding started on my door.
“Hey! There’s water coming through my ceiling!” an angry male voice shouted.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, horrified. “My washing machine just flooded. I’m trying to clean it up now.”
“Trying isn’t good enough!” he snapped. “My ceiling is ruined! Who’s your landlord?”
I immediately called Amanda. No answer.
So, I texted her.
EMERGENCY. Washing machine flooded. Water damage to my apartment and downstairs. Need immediate assistance.
***
I found Amanda standing at my door, arms crossed, expression cold.
“You’re out,” she yelled.
“I put your stuff in the trash. You flooded the neighbors. This isn’t your home anymore.”
“What? You told me the machine was fine! I asked you to fix it!”
“You clearly misused it,” she snapped.
“The damage is extensive, and I won’t have irresponsible tenants in my father’s buildings.”
“Your father’s buildings that you manage so well?” I shot back, 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.”
“That’s illegal! You can’t just throw me out without notice!”
“No way,” I whispered.
Tears of rage burned in my eyes, but I forced myself to stay calm.
I started taking photos and videos of everything, including the scattered belongings, the broken items, and my keys that no longer worked.
“This can’t be legal,” she said.
“She can’t just throw your stuff away and change the locks.”
“It’s not,” I confirmed, opening my laptop. “And I’m about to make her very sorry she messed with me.”
The next morning, I began my research.
Amanda had always presented herself as the landlord, but the lease I had signed listed her father, Mr. Fred, as the property owner. I found his number in the county property records and called him directly.
By the next morning, he called back with a deal.
He would compensate me for my damaged belongings, reinstate my lease, and cover the cost of all repairs. The washing machine would be recovered, and any water damage to my apartment would be professionally repaired.
In return, I agreed not to take legal action.
“One more thing,” he added. “I want to apologize personally. Amanda has been… she’s been taking liberties with my properties that I was unaware of. That ends now.”
Her father had evicted her from the neighboring apartment she’d been living in rent-free while collecting rent from other tenants.
“The new washing machine will be delivered tomorrow,” he assured me, handing me the keys. “And I’ll be handling all property management personally from now on.”
As I closed the door behind him and looked around my apartment, I couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes karma works in mysterious ways.
