MY LANDLADY THREW OUT MY BELONGINGS AND EVICTED ME — BUT THE NEXT DAY, SHE WAS THE ONE HAULING HER FURNITURE TO THE STREET

When my landlady Amanda tossed my things into the trash and kicked me out without warning, I felt like I had lost everything. But just a day later, I saw her carrying her own furniture out of the house—forced to leave. If that wasn’t karma, I don’t know what is.

I had long dreamed of living on my own since I turned 18. My parents begged me to stay home a little longer, but my mind was set.
“Evie, why are you in such a rush?” my mom asked. “Save some money first before you move out.”
My dad was more straightforward: “Life out there is expensive. But you’ll always have a home here.”
But I was stubborn.
“I need to do this. I can handle it,” I told them.

It’s been ten years since then. I’ve lived in all sorts of places—cramped apartments in college, a tiny one-bedroom afterward, until I started earning enough to look for a decent place.
“Finding a good apartment is harder than finding a good partner,” joked my friend Jen.
She was right. Even with a good realtor, you’re not safe from a nightmare landlady.

So when I found a charming apartment on a quiet, tree-lined street, I thought I had hit the jackpot.
“This belongs to Mr. Fred,” my realtor said. “But his daughter handles everything.”

That’s how I first met Amanda—a stern woman in her 40s with zero patience.
“All concerns go through me. I manage my father’s property,” she said firmly.
I signed the lease—under Fred’s name—and moved in right away.

For the first three months, everything went smoothly. Until my washing machine started making loud noises. I called Amanda, texted her too, but heard nothing for days. When she finally showed up, it was like she was being forced. She glanced at the rattling machine and simply said:
“That’s normal. It’s just old. Keep using it.”

I put up with it. Until one day, the machine broke completely—flooding my apartment and leaking through the ceiling of the neighbor downstairs. He was furious, and I immediately tried calling Amanda. Nothing. I texted EMERGENCY. Still nothing.

The next day, I found her waiting at my door.
“You’re out. I already threw out your things. You flooded the neighbor. You have no rights here,” she said coldly.

It felt like being drenched in ice water.
“Amanda, you told me it was fine to use the machine!” I protested.
But she just slammed the door in my face.

I rushed to the back of the building—and my heart sank. My belongings were scattered by the trash. Clothes stuffed in plastic bags, books and picture frames broken. I spotted my favorite photo of my parents—the glass shattered.

I took a deep breath. I wouldn’t cry. I grabbed my phone, snapped photos and videos of everything—even the key that no longer worked. I salvaged what I could into my car and went to Jen’s.
“This isn’t right. This is illegal,” she said after hearing my story.
“You’re right. And I’m going to fight back,” I replied.

The next day, I did some research. That’s when I realized: Fred was still the actual landlord, not Amanda. The lease was in his name.

I called Fred using a number I found in property records.
“Mr. Fred? This is Evie, a tenant in your building. Your daughter threw out my belongings and evicted me without notice.”
Silence.
“My daughter did… what?”
I told him everything—from the washing machine, the flood, to her illegal eviction. I said I had video and photo evidence.
“If my tenancy isn’t reinstated and my damaged belongings paid for, I’ll have no choice but to file a lawsuit,” I added.

He sounded stunned.
“I had no idea she was doing this. Give me until tomorrow morning.”

And he kept his word. The next day, I was reinstated in my unit, the washing machine replaced, damages repaired, and compensation for my lost belongings.

And Amanda? When I arrived, I saw her sweating, hauling her furniture out to the street. Evicted.

Our eyes met briefly. I said nothing. I walked straight back into my apartment, where Fred was waiting with a new key.

Sometimes, karma strikes suddenly. And sometimes, it comes at exactly the right moment.