For a while, everything felt just right.
When Jason moved in, it seemed like the perfect next step. His lease was up, my house had room, and I loved the idea of starting our future together. We split groceries, shared chores, and spent our evenings curled up watching our favorite shows.
But everything shifted the moment he found out the house was mine.
I was just eighteen when my dad handed me the keys.
“It’s nothing fancy,” he’d said with a smile, “but it’s ours.”
It was a modest two-story home that had been in our family for years. My dad had bought it cheap, fixed it up himself, and poured his heart into it. When he gave it to me, I knew how lucky I was.
Each floor was a separate unit with its own entrance, kitchen, and bathroom. I lived upstairs and rented the downstairs to a kind elderly woman named Maggie.
She paid $500 a month—way below market—but I wasn’t trying to profit. That rent just helped cover maintenance costs. I took care of the rest myself.
I never imagined owning a home would become a problem.
But then Jason made it one.
One night, we were watching a segment on the rising cost of rent. Jason scoffed.
“Landlords are the worst,” he said. “They just sit back and collect money while people struggle.”
I stayed silent, sipping my tea.
“They don’t care about anything but profit,” he continued.
I didn’t know what to say—because technically, I was a landlord. Not the greedy kind he was talking about, but still. I let it go to avoid tension.
But a few days later, everything unraveled.
Maggie knocked on the door—her freezer had died. I told her not to worry and that I’d cover the cost of a new one. She was relieved.
When I went back upstairs, Jason was waiting on the couch, his expression cold.
“You’re paying for her freezer?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “It was already here when she moved in, so it’s on me.”
“Why is that your responsibility?”
I hesitated, then finally said it: “Because it’s my house. I rent it to her.”
His whole demeanor changed.
“You own this place?” he said, shocked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I thought you knew.”
“I had no idea. You never told me.”
“It just never came up,” I said, confused. “It wasn’t a secret.”
But from that moment, Jason pulled away. He barely spoke, and when he did, he was cold.
Then came the confrontation.
“I can’t believe you kept that from me,” he said.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” I insisted. “You never asked.”
“But you’re a landlord. That changes everything. Landlords exploit people.”
“I’m nothing like that. I charge Maggie way below rent and handle everything myself.”
“But you still benefit,” he snapped. “And if you’re making money, I should get half.”
My heart dropped.
“You want half of Maggie’s rent?” I asked, stunned.
“Yes. If I’m living here, I should get a cut.”
That’s when I realized something deep and painful—Jason didn’t see me as a partner. He saw me as a paycheck.
I shook my head. “I’m not giving you anything.”
His face twisted with anger. “So you’re just going to keep making money while I get nothing?”
“If you have a problem with that,” I said calmly, “maybe you shouldn’t live here.”
“You’re kicking me out?” he barked.
“No,” I replied. “You’re leaving.”
He grabbed the keys, threw them across the room, and stormed out.
The next morning, I woke up feeling lighter than I had in months.
I had ignored the signs, but now I was free.
Later, Maggie came by with a basket of warm muffins. “I heard what happened,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
I smiled. “Honestly? I’m not.”
And I truly meant it.