I never thought I’d be one of those landlords. You know, the ones with horror stories. I bought the house years ago, a fixer-upper I poured my heart and soul into. Every nail, every paint stroke, it was a piece of me. But life happens, and when my job situation changed, I needed to move. Renting it out seemed like the smart choice, a way to keep my dream alive, to have a place to come back to someday.
I met them through a mutual acquaintance. A young couple, full of smiles and big plans. He was charming, a little too slick perhaps, but she had an earnestness about her that felt genuine. She was pregnant, glowing, talking about nesting, about making this house their first real home as a family. My heart melted a little. This is perfect, I thought. They’ll love it here. They’ll take care of it. We shook hands, signed the papers, and I handed over the keys with a bittersweet ache in my chest.
For the first few months, it was fine. The rent arrived on time. I’d drive by sometimes, seeing their car in the driveway, lights on inside. It felt good, knowing my home was filled with life. Then, things started to shift.
A man lying on a hospital bed | Source: Pexels
First, the rent was a few days late. An apology, a promise, a minor hiccup. Then a week. Then excuses started rolling in – a job issue, a family emergency, a medical bill. My patience, usually endless, began to fray. I tried to be understanding, they’re young, starting out, it’s tough. But the calls started going unanswered. Emails unreturned. I felt a cold dread creeping in. Something isn’t right.
I sent certified letters. I called non-stop. Nothing. The lease was clear. They were in breach. I had no choice. After weeks of escalating attempts, I served them with an eviction notice. It was gut-wrenching, knowing I was tearing apart what they’d called home, even if they weren’t holding up their end of the bargain. But I had to protect my investment, my future. They finally responded, a terse message saying they’d be out by the end of the month.
The day they were supposed to move out, I drove over, heart pounding. The place looked deserted. A few bags of trash were by the curb, but no moving trucks, no signs of activity. I waited, giving them a few extra hours, then a whole day. Nothing. I finally took out my spare key, hands shaking, and unlocked the front door.
A sad senior man sitting on the porch with a pipe | Source: Pexels
The smell hit me first. A putrid, stagnant odor, like something had died inside. My God, what have they done? I stepped into the foyer, and my breath caught in my throat.
The living room. My beautiful, sun-drenched living room. It was a disaster zone. Food containers, empty bottles, discarded clothing, and what looked like old diapers were strewn everywhere. The pristine white walls were streaked with dark grime and inexplicable smears. A hole, jagged and raw, was punched clean through the drywall.
Panic flared in my chest. NO. NO, NO, NO.
I walked deeper, each step a descent into a nightmare. The kitchen. Cabinets ripped off their hinges. The stainless steel appliances, once gleaming, were caked in hardened food and grease. The oven door hung askew. The floor was sticky, littered with broken glass. They had used a marker to draw obscenities on the refrigerator. My refrigerator.
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Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision, but I pushed them back. I had to see. I had to know the extent.
The bathroom. Filth beyond imagination. The toilet was clogged and overflowing, the basin chipped, a mirror shattered. The shower curtain was torn, hanging in shreds. Every single surface was covered in a thick layer of grime, mold, and sheer disregard.
Then, the bedrooms. My old bedroom, where I’d dreamed so many dreams. The walls were defaced. Cigarette burns marred the hardwood floors. A broken window stared out, letting in a cold draft. But it was the nursery, the room they had talked so excitedly about, where they planned to bring their baby home… that broke me.
It wasn’t just messy; it was maliciously destroyed. The crib they’d assembled was splintered. Baby clothes, unworn, were ripped and scattered. The delicate wallpaper, which I had carefully chosen and they had promised to replace, was torn down in strips, revealing the bare plaster beneath. Someone had taken a hammer to the wall, leaving a gaping crater right where the head of a crib would have been. It wasn’t just neglect; it was pure, unadulterated rage.
A thoughtful woman | Source: Pexels
I stumbled back, leaning against a doorframe, feeling sick to my stomach. My home. My sanctuary. It was gone. It was violated. They had utterly annihilated my peace, my trust, and my most cherished space.
I pulled out my phone, fingers trembling. I was going to call the police. I was going to call a lawyer. I was going to sue them for every penny they had, every penny they would ever make. I wanted them to pay. I wanted them to suffer. I wanted them to know the pain they had inflicted. Karma was coming for them, and I was going to be its instrument.
My thumb hovered over the ‘911’ button. Justice, I thought, I deserve justice.
But then, my phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but some instinct told me to answer.
“Hello?” I managed, my voice hoarse.
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“Is this…?” A woman’s voice, hesitant, strained. “Are you the owner of the house on Elm Street?”
“Yes,” I said, my heart starting to pound for a different reason. “Who is this?”
“I… I work at St. Jude’s Hospital,” she began, and my blood ran cold. “There’s been an accident. A severe car accident. Two individuals were involved, identified as the residents of your address.”
My stomach dropped. An accident? Before the police even arrived? A perverse, dark wave of satisfaction washed over me, quickly followed by a profound shame. Karma. It actually happened.
“Are they… okay?” I asked, hating myself for the grim curiosity.
“The male, he… he didn’t make it,” she said softly. “The female is critical. They’re trying to save the baby.”
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My ears were ringing. Dead. Critically injured. The baby. Oh God, the baby. A life gone, a life hanging by a thread. The rage in my heart began to curdle, twisting into something heavy and cold. This wasn’t what I wanted. This wasn’t justice. This was… devastation.
“There’s something else,” the woman continued, her voice even softer now. “When they brought her in, she was barely conscious. She was murmuring things. And they found this.” There was a pause. “A small, worn photograph. It was clutched in his hand.”
A photograph? What could a photograph possibly have to do with this?
“It’s an old photo,” she explained, “of a woman. A young woman. And on the back… a date. And a name. Your name.”
My blood ran utterly, horrifyingly cold. NO. NO. A photograph of a young woman. My name. My name. My stomach clenched, bile rising in my throat. I remembered a different young woman. A terrified, confused young woman, years and years ago, making the hardest choice of her life. A secret I had buried so deep, it felt like it had happened to someone else.
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“The name on the back of the photo,” she continued, “it was signed… ‘Your Loving Mother’.”
My knees buckled. I sank to the ruined floor, the stench of decay suddenly overwhelming. The room spun. The walls of my trashed house seemed to close in, suffocating me.
“The deceased male,” the woman’s voice cut through the haze, “he was your son. The one you gave up for adoption all those years ago.”
The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering onto the broken glass. My son. My son. The charming, slick young man who had smiled at me across my kitchen table. The man whose rage had torn my house apart. The house that was supposed to be his home once.
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He was gone. And the critically injured woman, the pregnant woman clinging to life in the hospital, the one carrying my grandchild… she was carrying the child of the son I never knew, the son who had died hating me enough to destroy what he must have subconsciously known was mine.
I stared at the hole in the nursery wall, the empty, desolate space where a crib had been. It wasn’t just a hole in drywall anymore. It was a gaping wound in my soul, a testament to a lifetime of regret and a karma more cruel than any I could have ever wished upon them.
