Living in a rented apartment has its ups and downs, but for me, it was mostly hell—thanks to my landlord, Mr. Wildrick. For four long years, he made my life miserable.
It started with the mold. Black, spreading across the bathroom ceiling, making me cough until I ended up in the ER. When I begged to hire professionals, he sneered, “It’s just a little dampness.” Right—tell that to my lungs.
Then there were the constant intrusions. I couldn’t take a shower without him knocking on the bathroom door. If I was on a work call, he’d “check the pipes.” Privacy didn’t exist; it felt like living with a creepy, unwanted roommate.
I tried to tolerate it, but after years of disrespect, I’d had enough. So when I finally found a new place, I decided to leave him a farewell gift. Before moving out, I documented everything—photos of mold, videos of his surprise visits, even medical records from my hospital stay. Then I sent the entire file to the housing authority and posted it on the local tenant board.
Within weeks, inspections rolled in. Fines stacked up. His “untouchable” reputation as a landlord crumbled. I left with a smile, knowing I hadn’t just escaped—I’d made sure no one else would suffer under his watch again. Sometimes the best revenge isn’t slamming the door on your way out—it’s making sure it can’t slam on anyone else.
