After a long shift at the hospital, I stepped into the elevator and ran into a neighbor I barely knew. She smiled brightly and said, “Oh! You live in Mrs. Lorrie and Jeremy’s apartment, right?”
I froze. “Mrs. Lorrie?”
“Yeah, Jeremy’s mom! She’s always talking about the building—they’ve owned that unit for years.”
That was the moment the puzzle pieces started falling into place. I asked a few questions and confirmed what I already feared: my husband and his mother weren’t just living in the apartment. They owned it. And I’d been paying them rent for two full years without knowing.
$1,000 a month. $24,000 total.
I went home in a daze. That night, I found public property records confirming the deed. Jeremy and his mother had co-owned the place for five years. There was no landlord. The lease had been fake. The entire setup had been a lie.
And that’s when I decided I wasn’t going to be their victim anymore.
Over the next two weeks, I kept up the act. I smiled, laughed, and even handed over my final rent payment—on December 27. All while quietly preparing for what came next.
On December 28, Jeremy left for work like usual. Ten minutes after he walked out the door, I began my own operation.
I packed up everything I owned. Furniture, clothes, even the coffee maker he loved. Then I visited the bank.
We had a joint account, one my paycheck had been going into. That morning, I closed it and transferred my share to a new account. Using that money, I signed a lease for a cozy new apartment of my own and paid the first month’s rent in full.
That afternoon, when Jeremy came home, he found an empty apartment and a letter taped to the window.
“Jeremy,
You and your mother spent two years charging me rent for an apartment you owned. I’m not staying where I’m not respected—and I’m not paying another cent. My new place? Already paid for.
Don’t bother calling—I’ve moved on.
Happy New Year,
Nancy.”
I turned off my phone and drove to my new home. A place where I could finally start fresh.
A week later, I ran into his mother at the store. She tried to explain. “Jeremy’s devastated,” she said. “Please, can’t we talk?”
But I was done with conversations. I told her plainly: unless Jeremy agreed to repay the money I’d given them under false pretenses, I’d be pursuing legal action.
Three months later, I received the settlement. Full repayment, plus interest.
Jeremy and his mother moved out shortly after. Rumor has it she sold the unit and relocated to Florida.
As for me? I’m thriving. My new apartment might be smaller, but the peace I feel here is priceless.
To anyone reading this: trust your instincts. If something feels off, ask questions. And if someone tries to take advantage of your kindness, don’t just walk away—walk forward, stronger and wiser.
Because in the end, standing up for yourself isn’t revenge—it’s justice. And it’s always worth it.