When Anna, a single mom of three, finally gets a raise, her sleazy landlord increases the rent… just because he can. But he’s about to learn the hard way that misreading a tired woman with nothing left to lose is the biggest mistake of all. This time, Anna’s done playing nice.
I’m not usually a trivial person. Between raising three kids and having a full-time job, petty has never fit into my calendar.
I’m Anna. I’m 36 and a single mom of three. My kids are my world, Liam’s eleven and he’s the kind of boy. Maya’s seven, loud and bold and always asking the questions no one else will. And then there’s Atlas, my four-year-old.
I work full-time as a team lead at a logistics company, though recently, I earned the title of Operations Manager.
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We’d been living in a modest two-bedroom rental for five years. I slept on the pull-out couch, my back a roadmap of tension and long days.
But it was ours.
Safe, clean, just 15 minutes from school and work. It wasn’t much but it was home.
Frank, our landlord, was the kind of man who ignored texts, delayed repairs and once told me, “With all those kids, you should be grateful you’ve got a place at all.”
Frank had this delightful habit of acting me like a squatter who’d somehow lucked into a lease.
He didn’t see a tenant, he saw a woman one missed payment away from being disposable.
Maintenance requests were met with silence, followed by slow, begrudging replies. The broken heater in December?
I texted him three times before he finally responded with, “Layer up, Anna. You and the kids. It’s not that cold.”
“I can swing by next Thursday if it’s really urgent.”
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The worst part though?
“You should be grateful you’ve got a place at all with all those kids.”
It was like my children were baggage. Like our home was a favor.
Still, I kept paying. On time, every month. Because starting over was expensive and even when the rent crept higher, it was still less than anywhere else that felt safe.
Then came the promotion.
It wasn’t fanfare and confetti but it was mine. A quiet win, hard-earned. I updated my LinkedIn.
“After years of juggling work and motherhood, I’m proud to say I’ve been promoted to Operations Manager. Hard work pays off!”
I didn’t expect applause. But I got kind messages from coworkers, old classmates, even one mom from daycare I barely knew.
“You make the impossible look easy,” she’d said.
I read that one three times.
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I cried in the breakroom. It was just a few tears.
Two days later, I got an email from Frank.
He was raising my rent by $500. No upgrades. No justification.
“Saw your little promotion post. Congrats! Figured that now’s the perfect time to squeeze a bit more out of you.”
I called him immediately, my hand trembling as I held the phone to my ear.
“Frank, that’s a massive increase,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve never missed rent. We have a lease…”
“Look,” he cut me off with a chuckle. “You wanted a career and a bunch of kids, that comes with bills. You’re not broke anymore, so don’t expect charity. If someone’s making more, they can pay more. It’s simple math, Anna. This is business, honey, not a daycare.”
I hung up without another word. I stood there for a long time.
Liam found me there. Barefoot, silent, gentle.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Just tired,” I tried to smile.
“We’ll be okay,” he said, eyes on the floor. “You always figure it out.”
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I was going to teach him something.
That same night, I opened my phone and posted in every local parenting and housing group I belonged to. Nothing flashy. Just the truth.
“Looking for a family-friendly rental? Avoid [insert Frank’s address]. Landlord just raised rent by $500 because I got a promotion. Punishing working moms for succeeding? Not today, ladies and gents.”
I didn’t name him. I didn’t need to.
The post blasted overnight.
Moms started commenting with their own horror stories. One said Frank made her pay six months in advance because “women are flakey.” Another shared screenshots where he refused to fix mold because “it’s just a cosmetic issue, Jane.”
Two days later, the post attracted attention. It was glorious.
And then, what do you know? Old Frank texted me.
“Hey, Anna. I’ve been thinking. Maybe the increase was too much too fast. Let’s keep the rent the same, yeah?”
I didn’t reply right away.
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Only after they were tucked in, only after I sat on the edge of my pull-out couch and stared at the chipped paint on the wall, did I finally reply.
“Thanks, Frank. But I’ve already signed a lease somewhere else. Just make sure to list the place as ‘pet-free’ though. The rats under the sink might not get along with the new tenant’s cat.”
He didn’t bother to respond. And I assumed that he had accepted my final notice.
We moved out at the end of the month. I didn’t cry when I closed the door. I didn’t look back.
And our new landlord, Mrs. Calder?
She brought over a welcome basket with mini muffins and a handwritten card. She remembered all their names the next week. When I teared up, she pretended not to notice.
A week later, Frank’s listing popped up online. The rent was slashed by $300. Still no takers.
Sometimes, I still get DMs.
“I saw your post, thank you. I needed a push to get out.”
“He tried the same thing with me. Not this time!”
And respect? That costs nothing.
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A few weeks after the move, once the boxes were prepared and the air finally smelled like us instead of dust and cardboard, I invited Mrs. Calder over for dinner.
When Mrs. Calder arrived, she brought a peach cobbler and a bouquet of sunflowers.
“I haven’t had a home-cooked meal with kids running around in years,” she said as she stepped inside. “This is already my favorite dinner.”
Dinner was filled with laughter and seconds and gravy on everything.
“You’ve made this house feel like a home, Anna,” Mrs. Calder said. “Not many people can do that in just a few weeks.”
So, I was very happy.