When I met our landlord, Mr. Harris, he seemed kind and professional. As a single mom of three, I was relieved to finally find a safe, affordable home — a small blue house on Maple Street. For a year, everything went smoothly. I paid rent early and kept the place spotless.Then one day, Mr. Harris called. “My sister’s going through a divorce,” he said. “Could you vacate for a week so she can stay there? I’ll waive next month’s rent.”
I refused — we had nowhere else to go. His tone hardened. “I’d hate for this to become… complicated.”A week later, he showed up with his elegant sister, Denise, who clearly disapproved of our modest home. Soon after, I received an email claiming the house needed “urgent plumbing repairs” and that we had to vacate. When I called the listed plumbing company, they confirmed no such repairs were scheduled.
Still, afraid of losing our home, I took my kids to stay with my cousin. Days later, I learned from a neighbor that Denise was living there — sipping wine on my porch. Furious, I gathered proof and contacted tenant rights lawyers.The truth came out: Mr. Harris had lied to rent the house to his sister. He was fined, ordered to compensate us, and banned from managing rentals.
Later, Denise apologized — she hadn’t known. He’d even stolen my personal documents. Another complaint followed, and he lost everything.Now, when I drive past that blue house, I don’t feel anger — only pride. Because we fought back and built something no one could take — our peace.