When I first met our landlord, Mr. Harris, I thought he was one of those rare, decent ones. He was polite, professional, and reassuring when I signed the lease for the little blue house on Maple Street.
As a single mother of three girls, finding a decent rental that wasn’t outrageously priced or in disrepair had been a battle. This place has two bedrooms, a small backyard, and a kitchen full of sunlight. It felt like a fresh start.
For the first year, everything went smoothly. I paid rent on time, never caused trouble, and took care of the property like it was my own. Mr.
Harris lived two towns over, and most of our communication happened through email or text. Occasionally, he’d stop by for an inspection, always with a polite smile and a “you’re doing a great job keeping the place up, Jessica.”
Then, about six months into our second year, things started to change. It began with a phone call.
“Jessica,” he said, his voice unusually curt. “I need to ask a favor. My sister is coming into town next month.
She’s going through a rough time, and I was wondering if you and your girls could vacate the property for a week so she can stay there.”
At first, I thought I’d misheard. “Vacate?” I repeated. “As in… move out?”
“Temporarily,” he clarified.
“Just for seven days. I’ll even waive next month’s rent to make it up to you.”
I laughed, thinking it was some kind of joke. “Mr.
Harris, I have three kids. Where are we supposed to go for a week?”
He sighed, as though I were being unreasonable. “Look, it’s just a short visit.
My sister’s had a tough time with her divorce, and she needs somewhere peaceful. The house has sentimental value to her—it used to belong to our parents. I figured it would mean a lot if she could stay there for a bit.”
His tone made it sound like I was being selfish for even hesitating.
But how could I pack up three kids and find somewhere to stay for a week? A hotel would cost a fortune, and I didn’t have any nearby relatives willing to host us. “Mr.
Harris, I’m sorry about your sister, but we have a lease. I can’t just leave,” I said firmly. He didn’t argue, but I could hear irritation in his voice when he replied, “Think about it, Jessica.
I’ve always been fair with you. I’d hate for this to become… complicated.”
That last word sent a chill down my spine. A week later, he showed up unannounced at the house with his sister in tow.
“This is Denise,” he said, introducing her with forced cheer. She looked to be in her late forties, sharply dressed and wearing too much perfume. Her expression when she glanced around my modest living room was one of thinly veiled distaste.
“So this is the place,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s smaller than I remember.”
Mr. Harris shot me a tight smile.
“Denise will be visiting next month. I trust you’ve had time to make arrangements?”
“I told you I can’t leave,” I said, crossing my arms. Denise let out a dramatic sigh.
“For heaven’s sake, it’s one week. Surely you and your… children can find somewhere to stay. My brother said you’re getting a free month’s rent out of it.”
The way she said “children” made it sound like an inconvenience rather than human beings.
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