When my landlord, Amanda, heartlessly tossed my belongings in the trash and locked me out without warning, I thought my life had just crumbled into pieces. But exactly 24 hours later, I stood by and watched her struggle to drag 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 a dream—to live independently. My parents weren’t thrilled about it and tried to convince me to stay home longer.
“Evie, why rush?” Mom would ask, her face full of concern. “Stay until you’ve saved enough for a safety net.”
Dad, ever the practical one, 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. Since then, I’ve moved from one rental to another like a modern-day nomad.
In college, I shared tiny, cluttered apartments with roommates who thought washing dishes was optional. After graduation, I upgraded to a one-bedroom—small, but at least it was mine. As my career took off and my finances improved, I finally decided it was time for something better. A place that felt like home.
“Finding the perfect apartment is harder than finding the perfect partner,” my friend Jen joked when I told her I was on the hunt again.
She wasn’t wrong. You can research, hire a realtor, and still end up stuck with a nightmare landlord. Unfortunately, landlords don’t come with reviews or warning labels.
When my realtor showed me a charming little apartment on a quiet, tree-lined street, I felt like I had won the jackpot.
“The owner is Mr. Fred,” my realtor explained while I excitedly imagined where I’d place my furniture. “He’s owned this building for decades.”
“Can I meet him?” I asked, picturing a sweet old man who cared about his tenants.
“Actually, his daughter handles everything,” my realtor replied. “Her name is Amanda. She lives next door and manages all his properties.”
I met Amanda that same day. She was a stern-faced woman in her forties with an attitude that screamed “no nonsense.”
“My father is semi-retired,” she informed me flatly. “I handle all property matters on his behalf. Any issues, questions, or concerns come directly to me.”
I signed the lease (with Fred’s name on it, I later realized) and moved in that weekend.
The apartment was perfect.
A fifteen-minute drive to my office, a cozy coffee shop within walking distance, and peaceful enough that I could sleep with my windows open.
For three months, life was great. Then, the washing machine started making a strange noise.
At first, it was just a soft rattle, but it grew louder until it sounded like the machine was fighting for its life.
It wasn’t urgent, but I knew better than to ignore it. Small problems turn into big disasters when left unchecked.
One afternoon during my lunch break, I called Amanda.
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? Thanks!”
I followed up with a text, giving a more detailed description of the issue.
No response. Not that day, not the next. A week passed, and my job had me drowning in work. I forgot all about the machine and just let the laundry pile up.
Then, one afternoon, a text popped up on my phone.
Coming by in an hour to check washing machine.
I checked 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 vanished. No reply.
By chance, my late meeting got canceled, so I made it home just in time. A sharp knock sounded at my door minutes later.
“It’s me, Amanda. Open up.”
She stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently.
“I don’t have all day,” she said.
Without another word, she walked in and went straight to the washing machine.
“It makes a loud grinding noise during the spin cycle,” I explained, turning it on. “Listen.”
The machine started violently shaking, letting out an awful metal-on-metal screech.
Amanda frowned, then shrugged. “Not a big issue. The machine’s just old. You can still use it.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “It sounds broken.”
“These old models are noisy,” she dismissed. “Just don’t overload it.”
I was too exhausted to argue. “Fine. Thanks for checking.”
That was the end of it. Or so I thought.
Two weeks later, I finally tackled my mountain of laundry. Midway through a cycle, a gurgling noise made me look up. Water seeped from under the bathroom door, spreading fast.
“No, no, no!” I gasped, running to stop the machine. Water gushed out, flooding my apartment.
Then, a loud banging on my door.
“Hey! There’s water coming through my ceiling!” an angry voice shouted.
I opened the door to my downstairs neighbor, dripping wet.
“I’m so sorry! My washing machine flooded,” I stammered.
“Who’s your landlord?” he snapped.
I called Amanda. No answer.
I texted her: EMERGENCY. Washing machine flooded. Water damage in my apartment and downstairs. Need immediate help.
No response.
The next day, exhausted, I arrived home to find Amanda at my door.
“You’re out,” she announced coldly. “I put your stuff in the trash. You flooded the neighbors. This isn’t your home anymore.”
“You told me the machine was fine! This isn’t my fault!”
“The locks are changed,” she said smugly. “Your lease is terminated.”
I was stunned. Then I saw my belongings—tossed like garbage near the dumpster.
Furious but determined, I took photos of everything, including my now-useless key.
Then, I found Mr. Fred’s number and called him directly.
“Mr. Fred? I was illegally evicted by Amanda. She threw my things in the trash. I have proof.”
Silence. Then, “She did WHAT?”
I told him everything. The washing machine, the ignored texts, the flood, and my unlawful eviction.
“I had no idea,” he admitted. “This is unacceptable.”
The next day, he called back.
He reinstated my lease, covered the cost of my damaged belongings, and fired Amanda from managing his properties.
That afternoon, I returned home to see Amanda dragging her own furniture to the curb.
Her father had evicted her.
I didn’t say a word as I walked past her.
Sometimes, karma works in mysterious ways.
And sometimes, it works exactly as it should.
