My name is Ashley, I’m 27, and I work as a teacher. Five years ago, my mom made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: rent my late Aunt Margaret’s old apartment from her for 20% below market rate. It was a steal, and I moved in, paying her $800 a month.
Over the years, I put everything I had into that place. I did a complete renovation—new hardwood floors, fresh paint, updated fixtures. I bought quality furniture piece by piece: a beautiful sectional sofa, a dining set, a king-size bed, a 65-inch smart TV. The apartment was my sanctuary.
The only issue was my younger sister, Emma. At 23, she still lived at home, “finding herself,” which meant she didn’t work. I loved her, so I always helped out. I paid off her maxed-out credit cards. I gave her money for a trip to Miami. I bought her the latest iPhone when she whined about hers being “ancient.”
Lately, though, our family dinners had gotten weird. Emma kept complaining about needing her “independence.”
“I can’t live with Mom and Dad forever,” she’d say.
“Well, then get a job and move out,” I’d reply, just being practical.
“It’s not that simple, Ashley. You don’t understand.”
I figured she’d either get motivated or keep living her comfortable life. It wasn’t my problem.
Then, at exactly 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday, my front door opened. My heart pounded. I crept toward my bedroom door and peeked out. There, standing in my entryway with two large suitcases, was Emma.
“What the hell?” I shouted, my fear instantly turning to anger. “Emma, what are you doing?”
She smiled casually, like showing up at dawn was the most normal thing in the world. “Oh, hey, Ashley. Sorry, did I wake you up?”
“How did you even get in here?”
“Mom gave me a key.”
A cold feeling spread through my chest. Emma walked toward my bedroom. “This is the master, right? I’m taking this room. You can move into the guest room.”
My head was spinning. I dialed Mom’s number with shaking fingers. “Mom, Emma is here with suitcases saying you told her she could move in with me. What’s going on?”
“Oh, that,” she said calmly. “Emma needs to get out on her own. This is the perfect solution.”
“Perfect for who? Mom, this is my home!”
“It’s not your home, Ashley,” she said, her voice turning to ice. “It’s my apartment. I own it.”
The words hit me like a slap. “Okay, fine,” I said, trying to stay calm. “How much is Emma going to pay for rent?”
Mom laughed. A real, actual laugh. “Emma’s not going to pay rent, Ashley. You are.”
“That’s insane!”
“Because you have a job and she’s still figuring things out. Besides, I’ve been thinking about raising the rent anyway. Starting next month, it’s going to be $1,600.”
“$1,600?” I was speechless. “Mom, that’s double what I’ve been paying!”
“The market rate has gone up. If you want to move out, that’s your choice. Emma has two friends who are looking for a place, and they’ll pay the full $1,600 without complaining.”
I hung up the phone, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it.
I spent the rest of the day on my laptop while Emma played loud music in what used to be my bedroom. By Sunday evening, I’d found a new place. A cozy one-bedroom apartment with a friendly landlord named Mrs. Chen. It was more than I’d been paying, but less than the crazy amount Mom was now demanding. Most importantly, it would be mine. No surprise roommates. No family drama. “I’ll take it,” I said without hesitation.
As I drove home, reality set in. I’d put so much money into Mom’s apartment—the renovations, the furniture. Was I really going to just walk away and leave it all for Emma and her friends?
Hell no.
That night, I made a plan. I called my friend Jake, who works for a moving company, and two other friends, Lisa and Mark. On Wednesday, I called in sick to work. As soon as Emma left to meet her friends, I called Jake. “She’s gone. Come on over.”
We worked like machines, packing and wrapping everything. The sectional sofa, the dining table, my bedroom set, the TV, even the microwave I’d bought. The only things I left were the few old pieces that had belonged to Aunt Margaret. Everything else was coming with me.
By that evening, my new place was starting to look like home. I was exhausted but happy. I had escaped.
Around 9:00 p.m., my phone started ringing. Emma. I let it go to voicemail, smiling as I imagined her walking into that empty apartment. She called again. Then again. Finally, at 9:30, Mom’s name appeared. I decided to answer.
“Ashley! What the hell did you do?” she yelled.
“I moved my furniture to my new apartment,” I said calmly.
“You can’t just take everything! Emma has nothing to sleep on!”
“That sounds like Emma’s problem. Or your problem, since you’re the one who decided she should live there.”
“Fine!” she snapped. “I’m glad you’re gone! Emma’s friends are moving in next week, and they’ll pay the full rent without all this drama!”
“Enjoy dealing with them,” I said, and hung up. Then I blocked her number, Emma’s, and Dad’s. I slept better that night than I had in weeks.
Eight months passed peacefully. Then one day, I ran into my Aunt Carol at the grocery store.
“Ashley, honey!” she said, giving me a hug. “Can we talk for a minute?”
We sat in the coffee shop section. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” she said, leaning in, “but your mom’s been having some… problems with that apartment.”
“What kind of problems?” I asked, trying to keep my expression neutral.
“Those friends of Emma’s? They’ve been causing all sorts of trouble. Loud parties every weekend. But that’s not the worst part. Two weeks ago, they flooded Mrs. Patterson’s apartment downstairs.”
My stomach dropped. I knew Mrs. Patterson, the sweet elderly lady who’d lived in that building for thirty years.
“How bad was it?”
“Bad. Really bad. Water ruined thousands of dollars worth of her antique furniture and rare books. She’s demanding $20,000 in damages, and she’s threatening to sue if your mom doesn’t pay up. The lawyer says since your mom is the landlord, she’s liable.”
A couple of days later, my phone rang with an unknown number. “Ashley,” it was Mom’s voice. “I need your help. We’re having some financial difficulties…”
She wasn’t going to tell me. She was hoping I didn’t know.
“Let me guess,” I said. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Emma’s friends flooding the downstairs neighbor’s apartment, would it?”
Silence. “How did you find out?”
“Does it matter? You created this mess by choosing Emma and her irresponsible friends over me. Now you want me to bail you out?”
“Ashley, we don’t have $20,000!”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Please, honey, I know we made mistakes, but we’re family!”
“Family? Mom, you kicked me out of my home for Emma. You chose her, and now you’re dealing with the consequences. You made your bed. Sleep in it.”
“So, you won’t help us?”
“Not a chance. Figure it out yourself, just like I had to.”
I hung up and blocked that number, too. Months later, I was at the mall when I saw her. Emma. She was behind the counter at a trendy clothing store, wearing a name tag and folding sweaters. Our eyes met for a second before she quickly looked away, pretending she didn’t know me.
I walked past without saying a word. What was there to say? She finally had a job. Maybe reality had finally been a wakeup call. Seeing her actually working for a living felt like poetic justice. I had my dignity, my independence, and my peace of mind. And that was worth more than any designer sofa.