When my landlord Amanda tossed my belongings in the trash and locked me out without warning, I thought I had lost everything. But just 24 hours later, I watched her dragging her own furniture to the curb as she faced eviction herself. That was karma. Pure and undeniable karma.
Ever since I turned 18, I had this dream of living independently. My parents begged me to stay home, but I was determined to make my own way in the world.
“Evie, why rush?” Mom would ask, concern etched across her face. “Stay until you’ve saved enough for a safety net.”
Dad was more direct. “The real world is expensive, kiddo. Our door is always open.”
But I had made up my mind.
“I need to do this,” I told them. “I’ll be fine.”
That was ten years ago, and since then, I’ve been a nomad of sorts, moving from one rental to another.
During college, I shared cramped apartments with roommates who never washed their dishes.
After graduation, I upgraded to a tiny one-bedroom that at least gave me privacy, if not much else.
As my career progressed and my bank account grew healthier, I decided it was time for something better. Something that felt like a real home.
“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 fair, she wasn’t wrong. You can hire the best realtor, scroll through countless listings, and still end up with a nightmare landlord. Unfortunately, landlords don’t come with reviews or warning labels.
When my realtor showed me this cute little apartment in a quiet neighborhood with tree-lined streets, I thought I’d hit the jackpot.
“The owner is Mr. Fred,” my realtor explained as I walked around, already mentally placing my furniture. “He’s owned this building for decades.”
“Can I meet him?” I asked, already picturing a kindly older gentleman who took pride in maintaining his property.
“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. She was a stern-faced woman in her forties with a no-nonsense attitude.
“My father is semi-retired,” she explained crisply when we met. “I handle all property matters on his behalf. Any issues, questions, or concerns come directly to me.”
Her tone left no room for debate.
I signed the lease (with Fred’s name on it, I later realized) and moved in the following weekend.
The location was perfect.
It was just a fifteen-minute drive to my office, walking distance to a cute coffee shop, and in a neighborhood quiet enough that I could sleep with the windows open.
It had been about three months of peaceful living when my washing machine started making that strange noise.
At first, it was just a mild rattle during the spin cycle, but it gradually became more concerning.
It wasn’t an emergency, but I wanted to address it before it turned into a full-blown disaster. After all, that’s what responsible adults do, right? 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.
“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.
By the end of the week, my work had ramped up to crisis levels, and I was pulled into emergency strategy meetings that lasted well into the evening.
Between the chaos at work and takeout dinners eaten at my desk, I forgot all about the washing machine. I simply avoided using it, piling my dirty clothes in the baskets and promising myself I’d deal with it when things calmed down.
It wasn’t until a week later that I got a message from Amanda.
Coming by in an hour to check washing machine.
I glanced at the time stamp. 4:30 p.m. I was still at work, with no plans to leave for at least another hour.
I’m at work. Can we schedule for tonight or tomorrow? I texted back.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, and then nothing. No response.
By some miracle, my meeting got canceled, and I reached home on time. A few minutes later, I heard a knock on my door.
“It’s me, Amanda,” she called out, her knuckles rapping sharply against the wood. “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.
She walked in without another word, heading straight for the laundry closet as if she’d rather be anywhere else.
I followed behind, feeling strangely guilty, as if I’d inconvenienced her by having a malfunctioning appliance.
“It makes a really loud grinding noise during the spin cycle,” I explained, reaching past her to turn the dial to that setting. “Listen.”
Sure enough, the machine began to shake violently, producing a horrific metal-on-metal sound that filled the small space.
Amanda frowned slightly, watching the machine rattle for a moment before shrugging.
“That’s not a big issue,” she said. “The machine’s just old. You can still use it.”
I stared at her, waiting for more, but she was already turning away.
“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.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue.
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks for checking.”
She nodded and left without another word.
That was the end of it. Or so I thought.
Two weeks later, I was working from home when I decided to finally tackle my mountain of laundry. I sorted clothes, added detergent, and started the machine before returning to my laptop in the living room.
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 gasped, jumping up and splashing through the growing puddle to the laundry closet.
Water was gushing from the bottom of the machine, pouring onto the floor faster than I could process what was happening. I slammed the dial to the off position and grabbed every towel I owned, throwing them down in a futile attempt to contain the flood.
That’s when the pounding started on my door.
“Hey! There’s water coming through my ceiling!” an angry male voice shouted.
I opened the door to find my downstairs neighbor, a middle-aged man I’d only nodded to in passing, standing there in water-spotted clothes.
“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.
When no response came after ten minutes, I gave her number to my furious neighbor.
He stormed off while I returned to the soggy disaster that was now my apartment.
The next afternoon, I arrived home from work exhausted and dreaming of a hot bath to wash away the stress of the day. Instead, I found Amanda standing at my door, arms crossed, expression cold.
“You’re out,” she yelled as I approached. “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!”
She rolled her eyes and stepped back into my apartment and shut the door in my face.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the door I could no longer open. Then reality hit me… my belongings. Where were my things?
I ran around the side of the building to the dumpster area and stopped short. There, scattered in and around the trash bins, were my possessions. Clothes spilled out of hastily packed bags, books were stacked haphazardly, and framed photos lay broken on the ground.
“No way,” I whispered, picking up a shattered picture frame. It held a photo of my parents on their 30th 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 pulled out my phone and started taking photos and videos of everything, including the scattered belongings, the broken items, and my keys that no longer worked.
Then I began salvaging what I could, loading armfuls of possessions into my car.
By nightfall, I had retrieved 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 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.
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 I was until your daughter illegally evicted me yesterday and threw my belongings in the trash.”
Silence followed. Then, “My daughter did what?”
I told him about the washing machine issue, Amanda’s dismissal of the problem, the flooding, and the illegal eviction. I explained that I had video evidence from my apartment security camera showing Amanda dismissing the washing machine issue, as well as photos of my discarded belongings.
“Additionally,” I said, my voice steady, “my lease is in your name, not hers, which means she had no legal authority to terminate my tenancy. If I’m not reinstated in my apartment and compensated for my unsalvageable items, I’ll have no choice but to take legal action.”
“I-I had no idea,” he stammered. “This is… this is unacceptable.”
“I agree,” I said firmly. “What do you plan to do about it?”
“Give me until tomorrow morning,” he replied. “I need to speak with Amanda and assess the situation.”
By the next morning, he called back with 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 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.”
That afternoon, I pulled into the complex, ready to move back into my apartment. That’s when I saw Amanda dragging her furniture to the curb.
Her father had evicted her from the neighboring apartment she’d been living in rent-free while collecting rent from other tenants.
I locked eyes with her for just a moment as I walked past. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.
I said nothing and simply walked past her to the apartment that was rightfully mine, where Fred was waiting 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’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.
And sometimes, it works exactly as it should.
