I Rented a Room from a Sweet Elderly Lady.

— But One Look at the Fridge the Next Morning Made Me Pack My Bags

When you’re desperate, you cling to anything that looks like hope. That’s exactly how I felt — overwhelmed by my little brother’s medical bills, struggling to keep up with full-time classes, and exhausted from late-night waitress shifts.

Getting accepted into a university in another city should have been a moment of joy. But without the financial means to afford student housing, it only felt like a burden. Then I came across an ad: a cozy room, low rent, in an old house owned by a sweet elderly woman who reminded me of my grandmother. It seemed perfect.

Mrs. Wilkins welcomed me with a warm smile and the scent of fresh lavender in the air. The house was charming, with floral wallpaper, antique furniture, and a table set with homemade soup.

— You’ll be just fine here, dear, she said, holding my hand firmly.

That night, I slept deeply for the first time in months. I felt safe — like I had found a home away from home.

The next morning, I headed to the kitchen to get some coffee. That’s when I saw it — taped to the fridge — a giant list, written in bold, bright red letters:

HOUSE RULES – READ CAREFULLY

There were twelve items, starting with:

1. No keys will be provided. Entry is only allowed between 9 a.m. and 8 p.m.
2. The bathroom remains locked. Ask Mrs. Wilkins for the key and return it immediately after use.
3. Your bedroom door must remain open at all times.
4. No meat in the fridge.
5. You must leave the house every Sunday from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.
6. No visitors. Ever.
7. Mrs. Wilkins may enter your room at any time.
8. Cell phone use is limited to 30 minutes a day.
9. No music allowed.
10. You may not cook without permission.
11. You may only shower three times a week.
12. ******** RESERVED FOR LATER ********

My stomach turned. “Reserved for later?” What else could there be? My fingers trembled.

— Good morning, dear, Mrs. Wilkins sang behind me, her tone sharp. — Did you read everything? Every word?

I nodded, trying to smile.

— I hope the rules aren’t too much for you, she said, reverting to her sweet voice. — They mean a lot to me.

I returned to my room, each step heavier. I heard her footsteps stop outside the door. Then silence. Through the window, I saw her walking toward a small greenhouse in the backyard.

I took a deep breath. This was my chance.

I started packing my things as quickly and quietly as I could. That’s when I heard a crackle from an old intercom on the wall:

— You’re making a lot of noise in there. Would you like to explain what you’re doing?

I froze.

— Did you forget rule number seven? Mrs. Wilkins’ voice echoed. — Everything requires my approval.

I zipped up my suitcase and rushed to the door. But before I could grab the handle, she was already there, standing in the hallway.

— Leaving already, dear?

— Uh… I forgot I had something urgent to take care of, I stammered.

She kept smiling, but her eyes were cold.

— Remember: everything is always worth discussing.

I walked out without looking back.

I made it to a park and sat on a bench, trying to make sense of what had just happened. I had no backup plan. Then a guy approached.

— Are you okay?

It was Ethan. Young, kind, he offered me a croissant and listened to my story. He worked at a café near campus and knew about a room in a shared apartment. It seemed like luck. He even offered to help me move.

In the weeks that followed, life began to settle. A new job at the café, a better room, more freedom. Ethan became a close friend — maybe more. But something about him left me uneasy. Sometimes he watched me in a way that felt… calculated.

— Ever think about Mrs. Wilkins? he asked one night. — People like her don’t make rules without reason. They have motives. Dark ones.

I acted like I didn’t care, but I was lying.

To this day, I wonder if she found another tenant. And what was written in that twelfth rule.

But one thing is certain: leaving that morning was the best decision of my life.

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