I thought renting out my basement to someone I knew would be simple. I didn’t expect it to unravel into shouting matches, slammed doors, and accusations that made me question my own generosity. Have you ever done something out of kindness and had it blow up in your face? That’s exactly what happened to me, and it all started with a basement and a favor.
About a year ago, I inherited an opportunity most twenty-somethings only dream about. My last living grandparent passed away. After the funeral and estate stuff settled, my dad called me out of the blue.
“Hey,” he said in his no-nonsense way. “You know Grandma’s old place? You want it? I don’t want it. If you’re interested, I’ll sell it to you for 75% of what it’s worth. Deal?”
I nearly choked on my coffee. I’d been saving for years, working every side gig, living off ramen. I had enough for a 60% down payment and financed the rest. Within a month, I had keys in my hand and a mortgage in my name. The house was a decent single-family home with a private entrance and a cozy two-bedroom basement unit with separate utilities. Until my parents might need it years down the road, it was just… empty.
Six months ago, I was at a bar with my best friend, Jake. He mentioned his little brother, Tyler, was moving out here for a teaching job.
“He’s broke as hell,” Jake said. “You know how it is starting out.”
“I’ve got the basement,” I said. “If he’s cool and quiet, I could rent it to him. Six-fifty, utilities included.”
Jake’s jaw dropped. “Dude. In this city? You’re practically paying him to live there.”
Tyler moved in the next week. For a while, everything was chill. He paid on time, kept to himself, and even baked banana bread. I figured I’d done a good thing. But last week, everything flipped.
It happened on a Wednesday. I was making dinner when I heard the creak of the basement stairs. Tyler appeared in the doorway, jaw tight.
“Can I start paying the landlord directly instead of handing you cash?”
I blinked. “What landlord?”
“The actual landlord,” he snapped.
“I am the landlord,” I said slowly. “I own the house.”
His face turned red. “WHAT?! YOU OWN THIS PLACE?! YOU LIED TO ME FOR SIX MONTHS!”
I was stunned. “I lied? Dude, it’s in your lease. Page one. My name. Owner and lessor.”
“NO. YOU TRICKED ME. YOU MADE ME PAY YOUR MORTGAGE LIKE SOME KIND OF SUCKER!”
I tried not to laugh. “Tyler… you’re paying $650 for a two-bedroom apartment. Market rate is triple that. What does it matter where the money goes?”
He slammed his palm on the counter. “IT MATTERS BECAUSE YOU’RE PROFITING OFF ME! I’M NOT PAYING TO MAKE YOU RICH!”
I leaned back, staring at him. “Rich? My mortgage is $775, plus $400 in taxes, plus insurance and utilities. I still pay over $1,500 out of pocket every month. You’re not making me money, you’re helping me not drown. I gave you a deal because you’re my friend’s brother.”
He didn’t respond. He just stormed back down and slammed the door. Since then, silence. No greetings. No banana bread. Just passive-aggressive stomping. I tried to talk it out via text, but he blocked me. Finally, I sent a firm message: I’d be entering for a walkthrough on Monday at 6 p.m.
When I unlocked the door, my stomach turned. The unit was disgusting. Crusted dishes, a sour smell, new stains on the carpet, and dents in the drywall. Half his stuff was shoved in boxes. I left a note: “Clean up, or your security deposit is forfeit.”
The next morning, he barged into my kitchen. “YOU VIOLATED MY PRIVACY!”
“I gave you 24 hours’ notice by text,” I said.
“I BLOCKED your number! So I didn’t get it! THIS IS YOUR FAULT! I KNOW MY RIGHTS!”
I stared at him. “It’s a rental. You signed a lease that says I can enter with notice.”
“I’M MOVING OUT!” he yelled. “I’D RATHER LIVE IN MY CAR!”
I shrugged. “That’s your choice. If you’re out by the end of the month, I won’t charge you September’s rent.”
“NO!” he shrieked. “I DON’T OWE YOU RENT! I HAVE 45 DAYS! I READ TENANTS’ RIGHTS!”
I sighed. “Notice period doesn’t erase rent owed. I’m cutting you a break.”
He stomped away, kicking a box. I locked myself in my office and called Jake. “Can you come over? I don’t feel safe.”
Tyler spent three days half-moving out. The basement looked like a war zone. I overheard him on the phone in the backyard telling someone I “exploited” him and that he was going to “expose the truth” online.
“Hey Tyler,” I called from the window. “Your lease ends in four days. Don’t forget your plant. It’s dying.”
He glared. “This isn’t over.”
Honestly, I don’t think he realizes how good he had it. Instead of being grateful for a miracle deal, he convinced himself he was being scammed because I was the one who owned the roof over his head.
Tonight, he stood in the doorway with a duffel bag and his half-dead plant. “I’m out,” he said flatly. “You win.”
“There was never a contest, man.”
“Yeah, right. Enjoy your little empire.”
I leaned against the counter. “You really think I’m some greedy tycoon? Living paycheck to paycheck in my dead grandma’s house? The only person who got scammed here was me.”
He paused at the door, gave one last glare, and muttered, “You’ll see. Karma’s real, man.”
Then he was gone. And for the first time in weeks, the house was finally quiet.
