For as long as I could remember, independence had been my ultimate goal.
My parents, however, encouraged me to take my time. They urged me to save money and make sure I was truly ready before moving out.
“Evie, why rush?” Mom would ask, concern in her voice.
Dad was more direct. “The real world is expensive. Our door is always open.”
But I was determined. At eighteen, I packed my things, moved out, and never looked back.
Over the next decade, I moved from one rental to another. In college, I lived with roommates who rarely cleaned up. After graduation, I upgraded to a tiny one-bedroom apartment, where I had more privacy but little else.
Now, I was ready for something more—a place that truly felt like home.
“Finding the perfect apartment is harder than finding the perfect partner,” my friend Jen joked when I mentioned my apartment hunt.
She wasn’t wrong. While the apartment itself might be great, the landlord could be another story.
When I finally found a place, I thought I’d hit the jackpot.
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