I thought moving in with my boyfriend, Michael, would be a dream come true. We found a room to rent in an older woman’s house, and though it wasn’t ideal, I was excited to start this new chapter. But soon, everything went downhill.
Jeanette, the landlady, seemed sweet at first—grandmotherly, with her cozy living room and constant smell of cookies. But within days, she started making my life miserable. She barged into our room without knocking, threw my clothes on the floor, and vacuumed the hallway at 4 a.m., waking me up every time. But her worst offense? Adding soy to a meal, knowing I had an allergy. After a trip to the hospital, I’d had enough.
Yet, Jeanette adored Michael. She never bothered him, never turned off the hot water on him like she did to me, and always seemed to make excuses for her behavior. I thought it was just favoritism until the day I found out the truth.
After another cold shower and yet another petty argument, I stormed out of the house. I needed space, but I realized I’d forgotten my phone. When I went back to grab it, I overheard voices in the kitchen. Quietly, I peeked in and froze. Michael was handing Jeanette a wad of cash, thanking her for “helping” him.
My heart sank as the truth hit me. Michael had paid Jeanette to drive me out. Furious, I confronted them, and Michael admitted he never wanted to live together in the first place. He paid her to make me so uncomfortable that I’d leave on my own.
Heartbroken and enraged, I packed my things, but not before smashing Michael’s computer and ruining his clothes with bleach. I stormed out, leaving the both of them behind, and never looked back.