When my landlord Amanda tossed my belongings in the trash and locked me out without warning, I felt like my entire world had been ripped away. But just 24 hours later, I watched her dragging her own furniture to the curb as she faced eviction herself. That was karma. Pure, undeniable karma.
Ever since I turned 18, I had a dream: to live independently. My parents begged me to stay home longer, to save money, to be smart about it.
“Evie, why rush?” Mom would say, worry in her eyes. “Stay until you’ve saved enough for a safety net.”
Dad, always the practical one, added, “The real world is expensive, kiddo. Our door is always open. You don’t have to struggle.”
But I had made up my mind.
“I need to do this,” I insisted. “I’ll be fine.”
That was ten years ago. Since then, I had bounced from one rental to another, always searching for a place that truly felt like home.
During college, I lived in tiny apartments with roommates who left dirty dishes stacked in the sink for days. After graduation, I moved into a one-bedroom that, while private, was so small that I could touch my kitchen counter from my bed. As my career took off and my finances improved, I decided it was finally time for something better.
“Finding the perfect apartment is harder than finding the perfect partner,” my best friend, Jen, joked when I told her I was apartment hunting again.
She wasn’t wrong. You can scroll through countless listings, work with the best realtor, and still end up with a nightmare landlord. Unfortunately, landlords don’t come with reviews or warning labels.
Then, I found it: a cozy little apartment on a quiet, tree-lined street. The location was perfect—just a fifteen-minute drive to my office, a short walk to a charming coffee shop, and peaceful enough that I could sleep with the windows open.
“The owner is Mr. Fred,” my realtor explained as I excitedly examined the space. “He’s had this building for decades.”
“Can I meet him?” I asked, already picturing a sweet elderly man who took pride in his property.
“Actually, his daughter manages everything,” he replied. “Her name is Amanda. She lives next door.”
I met Amanda that same day. She was in her forties, with sharp eyes and an even sharper attitude.
“My father is semi-retired,” she said brusquely. “I handle all property matters. Any issues, questions, or concerns—come to me.”
Her tone made it clear: she was in charge, and she didn’t like being questioned.
I signed the lease (with Fred’s name on it, I later realized) and moved in the following weekend.
For the first three months, everything was great. Then, my washing machine started making a strange noise. At first, it was a mild rattle, but soon it turned into a full-blown metal-on-metal screeching.
It wasn’t an emergency, but I wanted to fix it before it became a bigger problem. So, during my lunch break at work, I called Amanda.
No answer.
I left a voicemail. I followed up with a text. No response.
A few days passed, and my workload at the office exploded. I barely had time to sleep, let alone chase down my landlord. The washing machine issue got pushed to the back of my mind.
A week later, Amanda finally responded.
Coming by in an hour to check washing machine.
I glanced at the time—4:30 p.m. I was still at work.
I’m at work. Can we schedule for tonight or tomorrow? I texted back.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then… nothing.
By some miracle, my evening meeting got canceled, and I made it home just in time. A sharp knock sounded at my door.
“It’s me, Amanda,” she called out. “Open up.”
When I did, she stood there, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently.
“I don’t have all day,” she huffed, marching past me straight to the laundry closet.
“It makes a loud grinding noise during the spin cycle,” I explained, turning it on to demonstrate.
The machine shook violently, producing an awful screeching sound.
Amanda frowned slightly but shrugged. “That’s not a big issue. It’s just old. You can still use it.”
I blinked. “That’s it? It sounds like it’s breaking apart inside.”
“These older models are noisy,” she dismissed. “Just don’t overload it.”
I had no energy to argue. “Fine. Thanks for checking.”
She nodded and left.
Two weeks later, disaster struck.
I was working from home when I decided to finally do my laundry. The machine started as usual, but then I heard a strange gurgling sound.
I looked up from my laptop just in time to see water spreading across my hardwood floor.
“No, no, no!” I gasped, rushing to the laundry closet.
Water gushed from the bottom of the machine. I shut it off and grabbed every towel I owned to soak up the flood.
Then came the pounding on my door.
“Hey! There’s water coming through my ceiling!” an angry voice yelled.
I opened the door to find my downstairs neighbor, dripping wet and furious.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, horrified. “The machine flooded. I called Amanda weeks ago to fix it.”
“Call her now!” he snapped.
I did. No answer. I texted. No response.
The next afternoon, I came home to Amanda standing at my door, arms crossed.
“You’re out,” she sneered. “I put your stuff in the trash. You flooded the neighbors. You’re done.”
“What?! You told me the machine was fine! You ignored my requests!”
She smirked. “The locks are changed. Your lease is terminated.”
She shut the door in my face.
I ran around the building and gasped—my belongings were scattered in and around the trash bins. Broken picture frames. Clothes dumped in piles. Books soaking in spilled garbage.
My hands trembled with rage, but I forced myself to stay calm. I took photos. Videos. Then, I started researching.
Amanda may have acted like she owned the building, but my lease had Fred’s name on it. I found his number in public property records and called him.
“My daughter did what?” he said, stunned, after I told him everything.
By the next morning, he called me back with a solution.
“You’re moving back in. I’ll replace your washing machine, cover the damages, and cut your rent in half for six months. Amanda will no longer be handling my properties.”
As I pulled into the complex, I saw Amanda dragging her own furniture to the curb.
Her father had evicted her from the apartment she had lived in rent-free.
She saw me, opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. I just smiled and walked past her.
Fred greeted me with a new set of keys. “The new washing machine arrives tomorrow,” he said. “Welcome back, Evie.”
I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath. Sometimes, karma works fast.
And sometimes, it’s perfectly timed.
