My Landlord Threw My Belongings in the Trash and Kicked Me Out

– The Next Day, She Was Dragging Her Own Furniture to the Curb

Ever since I turned 18, I had dreamed of having my own place. As my career grew and my finances stabilized, I finally decided it was time to live independently.

“Finding the perfect apartment is harder than finding the perfect partner,” my friend Jen used to joke. And honestly, she wasn’t wrong.

When my realtor showed me a cute little apartment on a quiet, tree-lined street, it felt like a dream come true.

“The owner is Mr. Fred,” the realtor explained.
“He’s owned this building for decades.”

“Can I meet him?” I asked.
“Actually, his daughter handles everything,” he replied.
“Her name is Amanda. She lives next door and manages all of his properties.”

I met Amanda that same day.
“My father’s semi-retired,” she explained.
“I handle everything on his behalf. Any questions or problems, just come to me.”

I signed the lease—under Mr. Fred’s name, as I later realized—and moved in that weekend.

For three months, everything was great. But one day, my washing machine started making a strange noise. I left Amanda a voicemail:

“Hi Amanda, this is Evie from apartment 2B. My washing machine is making a weird noise. Could someone take a look at it?”

I followed up with a text message. But no reply. Not that day. Not the next.

A week later, she texted me:
“I’ll stop by in an hour.”

When Amanda showed up, I ran the machine to demonstrate the grinding noise.
“It’s just old,” she said. “You can still use it. Don’t overload it.”

“That’s it?” I asked.
“These older models are noisy,” she added. “But they last forever.”

Two weeks later, while working from home, I decided to do laundry.

Twenty minutes in, I heard a strange gurgling sound. I looked up to see water seeping out from under the bathroom door, spreading across the floor.

“No, no, no!” I gasped.

Water was flooding the apartment and leaking downstairs. Suddenly, a furious knock on the door.

“Hey! There’s water coming through my ceiling!” yelled a man from below.
“I’m so sorry! The washing machine exploded—I’m trying to stop it now!” I said, horrified.

“Trying isn’t good enough! My ceiling is ruined! Who’s your landlord?”

I called Amanda. No answer.

I texted her:
EMERGENCY. Washing machine flooded. Damage to my apartment and the one below. Need help ASAP.

That evening, I got home and found Amanda waiting at my door, arms crossed.

“You’re out,” she snapped.
“I threw your stuff in the trash. You flooded the building. This is no longer your home.”

“What? You told me the machine was fine! I asked you to fix it!” I cried.

“You clearly misused it,” she replied coldly.
“My father’s buildings don’t need tenants like you.”

“I want to speak to him,” I demanded.

“He trusts my judgment. The locks are changed. Your lease is terminated.”

“This is illegal!” I protested.

Tears of rage burned in my eyes. I took photos and videos of everything: my belongings dumped in trash bins, ruined furniture, broken items—and the keys that no longer worked.

“She can’t do this,” Jen told me when I called her.
“She definitely can’t,” I agreed. “And now I’m going to make sure she regrets it.”

The next morning, I dug into some research.

Though Amanda claimed to be the landlord, the lease had Mr. Fred’s name on it. I found his contact in the county’s public property records and gave him a call.

The following day, Mr. Fred called back.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’ll compensate you for your damaged belongings, renew your lease, and take care of all repairs. A new washing machine will be delivered, and the apartment will be fully restored.”

In exchange, I agreed not to pursue legal action.

“One more thing,” he added.
“I want to apologize in person. Amanda has been taking liberties with my properties that I wasn’t aware of. That ends today.”

He had evicted Amanda from the neighboring apartment she had been living in rent-free while abusing her authority.

“I’ll personally manage all rentals from now on,” he assured me, handing me a new set of keys. “And the new machine arrives tomorrow.”

As I closed the door behind him and looked around my restored apartment, I smiled.

Sometimes, karma really knows what it’s doing.