It was a cozy, light-filled apartment in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. A cute coffee shop was just down the block, and it was only fifteen minutes from my office.
“The owner is Mr. Fred,” my realtor explained as I admired the high ceilings and spacious layout. “He’s owned this building for decades.”
“Can I meet him?” I asked, picturing a kind, elderly man who took pride in his property.
The realtor shook his head. “Actually, his daughter handles everything. Her name is Amanda. She lives next door.”
I met Amanda that same day.
She was a no-nonsense woman in her forties with a serious demeanor.
“My father is semi-retired,” she explained, arms crossed. “I handle all property matters. Any issues, come to me.”
Her tone left no room for discussion.
I signed the lease, which was in Mr. Fred’s name, and moved in that weekend.
For the first three months, everything went smoothly.
Until the washing machine started making an unsettling noise.
It began as a soft rattle but soon turned into a loud, grinding sound every time I ran a load.
I called Amanda on my lunch break. No answer. I left a voicemail and followed up with a text.
No response.
A week passed. Work kept me busy, and laundry fell to the bottom of my priority list.
Then, finally, I received a message.
“I’ll come by in an hour to check the washing machine.”
I was still at work.
“I’m not home. Can we schedule for tonight or tomorrow?” I texted back.
Amanda’s typing dots appeared… then disappeared.
By some stroke of luck, I got home earlier than expected, just in time to hear a sharp knock on the door.
“It’s me, Amanda. Open up.”
I barely had time to turn the knob before she stepped inside and went straight to the laundry closet.
“It makes a really loud grinding noise during the spin cycle,” I explained, twisting the dial.
The machine whirred to life, then—BANG BANG BANG—it shook violently.
Amanda stood there, unimpressed.
“That’s normal,” she said flatly.
“Normal?” I blinked. “It sounds like it’s coming apart.”
She shrugged. “Old machines are noisy. Just don’t overload it.”
And with that, she left.
I should’ve pushed harder, but I was exhausted and didn’t have the energy to argue over a washing machine.
A mistake I would soon regret.
Two weeks later, while working from home, I finally tackled the growing pile of laundry.
Fifteen minutes into the cycle, I heard an unusual gurgling noise.
Then, water seeped under the bathroom door.
I ran, heart pounding. The washing machine was overflowing, flooding the floor.
I shut it off and threw down every towel I owned.
Then, a loud knock on my door.
“Hey!” an upset voice called. “There’s water coming through my ceiling!”
My downstairs neighbor stood there, clearly frustrated.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “The washing machine overflowed—”
“Who’s your landlord?” he asked.
I immediately called Amanda. No answer.
I texted her: “EMERGENCY. Washing machine flooded. Water damage downstairs. Need immediate help.”
No response.
I gave my neighbor her number, and he stormed off to call her himself.
That afternoon, I returned home, exhausted and hoping for a solution.
Instead, Amanda was waiting at my door.
“You’re out,” she said bluntly.
I stared. “What?”
“Your lease is terminated. The damage is extensive,” she declared. “The locks have been changed.”
I was speechless. “That’s not how this works. You can’t just evict me like this.”
But she had already walked away.
I pulled out my phone and took pictures, documenting everything.
That night, I stayed at Jen’s, determined to find a solution.
The next morning, I looked up public property records and found Mr. Fred’s number.
The phone rang a few times before an elderly voice answered. “Hello?”
“Mr. Fred? My name is Evie. I was a tenant in your building until yesterday when your daughter changed my locks and removed my belongings without notice.”
Silence.
Then, “She did what?”
I explained everything—the ignored repair requests, the flood, and the unexpected lockout.
“Additionally,” I said, “my lease is in your name, not hers. I’d like to resolve this fairly, but I need to be reinstated and compensated for damages.”
A long pause followed. Then:
“Give me until tomorrow morning.”
The next day, Mr. Fred called back.
He offered compensation for my damaged belongings, full reinstatement of my lease, and professional repairs to my apartment.
“And Amanda?” I asked.
“She won’t be managing my properties anymore,” he replied.
When I returned, I saw Amanda moving out of the neighboring apartment.
We locked eyes, but I said nothing.
Mr. Fred met me at my door, new keys in hand. “I’ll be handling everything from now on,” he said.
As I stepped back into my apartment, a smile spread across my face.
Sometimes, things work out just as they should.