When Anna, a single mother of three, finally gets a promotion, her despicable landlord raises her rent… just because he can. But he’s about to learn the hard way that underestimating a tired woman with nothing to lose is the biggest mistake of all. This time, Anna isn’t playing fair.
I’m not usually a petty person. I don’t have time for that. Between raising three kids and juggling a full-time job, pettiness has never fit into my schedule. But when someone comes after my peace, my babies, and the roof over our heads… just because I took a break?
Well. I won’t fall headfirst. I’ll fall planning.
Let me explain.
I’m Anna. I’m 36 years old and a single mother of three. My kids are my world. Liam is eleven years old and the kind of kid who holds doors without being asked and knows when I’ve had a rough day without saying a word. Maya is seven, loud and bold, always asking the questions no one else dares to ask. Then there’s Atlas, my four-year-old. He’s a walking tornado in Lightning McQueen socks, with curls that keep popping up no matter how hard I try to tame them.
Our mornings start before the sun even rises. I’m up at five, packing lunches, tying shoes, brushing tangles, and reheating coffee that I’ll never get to drink. I work full-time as a team leader at a logistics company, though I’ve recently earned the title of Operations Director. After eight years of staying late, skipping lunch breaks, and never taking sick days, someone finally noticed me. The raise wasn’t huge, but it meant that maybe, just maybe, I could start saying yes when my kids asked for something simple. New shoes without holes. A school field trip without borrowing from next month’s budget. Brand-name cereal.
We had been living in a modest two-bedroom rental for five years. We moved in just before Atlas was born. Just before his father, Ed, left the scene. The kids shared a room with bunk beds that creaked every time someone turned over. I slept on the sofa bed, with my back becoming a map of tensions and long days. Sure, it was clean, safe, and just 15 minutes from the school and work. It wasn’t much, but it was our home.
Frank, our landlord, was the type of man who liked to take ownership of things, especially people’s silence. He ignored messages, delayed repairs, and once told me, “With all those kids, you should be grateful to have a home.” I swallowed my pride and paid the rent. Because stability is priceless… until someone tries to sell it to you at a markup.
Frank had the charming habit of treating me like an intruder who, somehow, had been lucky enough to get a lease. He didn’t see a tenant; he saw a woman one payment away from being disposable.
Maintenance requests went unanswered, followed by slow and reluctant responses. The broken heater in December? I sent him three texts before he finally replied, “Put on a sweater, Anna. You and the kids. It’s not that cold.” When the kitchen faucet exploded like a rusty geyser, soaking my shoes and nearly electrocuting the toaster, his response was just as bad.
“I can come by next Thursday if it’s really urgent.”
But it was never urgent to him. Neither the ants, nor the mold, nor the fact that the door lock jammed every time it rained. He made me feel like asking for basic safety was asking for too much. The way he looked at me when we crossed paths, like a single mom in distress was a cautionary tale, not a human being. He once smiled smugly.
“You should be grateful to have a place with all those kids.”
It was as if my children were luggage. Like our home was a favor.
Still, I kept paying. On time, every month. Because starting over was expensive, and even when the rent went up, it was still cheaper than anywhere else I thought would be safe.
Then came the promotion.
It wasn’t with fanfare and confetti, but it was mine. A quiet victory, earned with effort. I updated my LinkedIn.
“After years of balancing work and motherhood, I’m proud to announce I’ve been promoted to Operations Director. Hard work pays off.”
I wasn’t expecting applause. But I received kind messages from coworkers, former classmates, even a daycare mom I barely knew.
“You make the impossible look easy,” she told me.
I cried in the break room. It was just a few tears. Quiet ones. I felt like someone finally saw me, not just the tired eyes and the late arrivals.
Two days later, I received an email from Frank.
An Emotional Woman in a Work Break Room | Source: Midjourney
Subject: Rent Adjustment Notice
He raised my rent by $500. No improvements. No justification.
“I saw your little promotion. Congratulations! I thought now would be the perfect time to take a little more from you.”
I stared at the screen, blinking as if the words could rearrange into something less vile. Surely, this wasn’t real. It had to be a mistake. Some error. Maybe he had sent it to the wrong tenant.
A Woman Sitting with Her Laptop | Source: Midjourney
I called him immediately, my hand trembling as I brought the phone to my ear.
“Frank, this is a huge increase,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve never missed a rent payment. We have a lease…”
“Look,” he interrupted with a chuckle. “You wanted a career and a bunch of kids, and that comes with bills. You’re not broke anymore, so don’t expect charity. If someone makes more, they can pay more. It’s basic math, Anna. This is a business, sweetheart, not a daycare.”
An Older Man Talking on the Phone | Source: Midjourney
I sat there, stunned, with my mouth dry. My hand fell into my lap, still holding the phone. I could hear the kids laughing in the living room. Their laughter was so normal, so innocent, that bile rose in my throat.
I hung up without saying anything else.
That night, after the bedtime routines and three little bodies tucked into mismatched sheets, I found myself in the laundry room, holding a pile of mismatched socks as if I were going to punish myself.
Socks in a Laundry Basket | Source: Midjourney
I stayed there for a long time.
There’s a specific type of crying you have to hold in so your kids don’t hear it. The one that stays in your chest, burning and trembling. That’s the one I swallowed.
Liam found me there. Barefoot, silent, kind.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Just tired,” I tried to smile.
A Boy Standing in a Hallway | Source: Midjourney
He nodded, settling beside me, his back leaning against the dryer.
“We’ll be okay,” he said, eyes on the floor. “You always manage.”
And somehow, hearing him say that broke me more than Frank ever could. And then I made a decision.
I wasn’t going to beg. I wasn’t going to beg Frank or scrape together money I didn’t have or sacrifice food for rent. I was done being nice to people who saw kindness as weakness.
A Woman Leaning Against a Wall | Source: Midjourney
I was going to teach him a lesson.
That week, I handed in my 30-day notice. No drama. Just a signed letter, slid into his mailbox like a resignation from his nonsense.
That same night, I took to my phone and posted in every local parent and housing group I belonged to. Nothing flashy. Just the truth.
A Red Mailbox | Source: Midjourney
“Looking for a family-friendly rental? Avoid 116 Muscut Avenue. My landlord just raised my rent $500 just because I got a promotion. Punishing working mothers for succeeding? Not today, folks.”
I didn’t name him. Didn’t need to.
The post exploded overnight.
Mothers started commenting with their own horror stories. One said Frank made her pay six months in advance because “women are shady.” Another shared screenshots where he refused to fix the mold because “it’s just an aesthetic issue, Jane.”
A Phone on a Table | Source: Midjourney
They rolled their eyes. Reactions of anger. One woman called him a “sleazy landlord from the bad part of town.” Another said he once told her she should “marry a rich man if she wanted better maintenance.”
Then came Jodie. She was a mother I barely knew from the Parent Association circles. She sent me a private message.
“Anna, this man tried to rent me that same unit and asked if my husband would co-sign. And you know why? In case I got pregnant and couldn’t work.”
Jodie had the proof. And she posted it.
A Woman Using Her Phone | Source: Midjourney
Two days later, the post was spotted by a local real estate watchdog page. Someone even made a TikTok with piano music and dramatic transitions, bringing up the shocking listing and my original post side by side.
And then, guess what? Old Frank sent me a message.
“Hey, Anna. I’ve been thinking. Maybe the increase was too hasty. Let’s leave the rent the same, okay?”
A Man Typing on His Phone | Source: Midjourney
Instead, I picked up Maya from ballet, still sweaty and covered in glitter. I picked up Atlas from preschool, where he had glued three pieces of poster board together and called it “rocket dog.”
I sat with Liam while he worked on long division, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, with the most chewed-on pencil still usable.
A Close-up of a Girl | Source: Midjourney
I kissed all three of their heads like I always did, Maya’s quickly, Atlas’s sticky, and Liam’s slightly embarrassed but tolerant. I made grilled cheese with the last slices of bread and pretended not to notice we’d run out of milk again.
I read “The Gruffalo” twice because Atlas asked for it.
“Do the monster voice again!” he whispered eagerly. I did, even though my throat burned.
Grilled Cheese Sandwiches on a Cutting Board | Source: Midjourney
Only after they were all in bed, only after I sat on the edge of my sofa bed and looked at the chipped paint on the wall, did I finally respond.
“Thanks, Frank. But I’ve already signed a lease somewhere else. By the way, make sure to emphasize the ‘no pets.’ The rats under the sink might not get along with the new tenant’s cat.”
He didn’t bother replying. And I figured he had accepted my final notice.
We moved at the end of the month. I didn’t cry when I closed the door. I didn’t look back.
A Woman Standing on a Porch | Source: Midjourney
A friend from one of the housing groups put me in touch with her cousin’s landlord. That’s how we found our new apartment. It’s a bit smaller, of course, but it has three real bedrooms.
No more creaking bunk beds or sleeping on coils and springs. There’s a patch of grass in the back, uneven, a little wild.
Atlas calls it his farm. Maya braided dandelions into a crown on our first weekend there. Liam has already claimed the room with the best light and started drawing again.
A Dandelion Crown on Grass | Source: Midjourney
And our new landlord, Mrs. Calder?
She brought us a welcome basket with mini muffins and a handwritten card. The following week, she remembered all their names. When tears welled up in my eyes, she pretended not to notice.
That night, after the chaos of moving boxes and tangled chargers and someone losing their left shoe, we all lay on the living room floor. I stared at the ceiling and allowed myself to exhale for the first time in months.
A Basket of Mini-Muffins | Source: Midjourney
“Is this our home forever?” Atlas snuggled up to me and whispered.
“It’s our best home,” I said. “Maybe our forever home… we’ll see, okay?”
A week later, Frank’s ad appeared online. The rent had dropped by $300. Still, no takers.
Sometimes, I still get messages.
“I saw your post, thanks. I needed a push to make the decision.”
“He tried the same with me. Not this time.”
A Child Lying on a Carpet | Source: Midjourney
It turns out, in a world where rent rises faster than hope, word of mouth is currency.
And respect? That costs nothing.
So if you think single mothers are easy targets, if you think we’re too tired to stand up for ourselves, too busy to speak, I hope you know…
We carry diaper bags and a long list of receipts. And we remember everything.
A Smiling Woman in a Green Sweater | Source: Midjourney
A few weeks after the move, once the boxes were flattened and the air finally smelled like us instead of dust and cardboard, I invited Mrs. Calder over for dinner.
I didn’t have much, but I made the kind of food that says thank you when words fall short. Roasted chicken with potatoes and herb carrots, and enough gravy to drown every bite in comfort.
Liam peeled the carrots while pretending to be on a cooking show. Maya dramatically sprinkled rosemary. Atlas was in charge of buttering the rolls, which meant licking his fingers and spreading butter on his cheek.
Roast Chicken with Vegetables | Source: Midjourney
When Mrs. Calder arrived, she brought a peach pie and a bouquet of sunflowers. She was wearing a cardigan with cats on it and smiled like someone who meant it.
“I haven’t had dinner at home with kids running around in years,” she said as she entered. “This is already my favorite dinner.”
The dinner was filled with laughter, second helpings, and gravy everywhere. Liam explained how potatoes absorb flavor better when they’re lightly mashed. Maya insisted the chicken was juicier because she had whispered compliments to it while it roasted.
A Peach Pie | Source: Midjourney
Atlas dropped his roll, cried, and then cheered when it bounced off his chair and landed back on the table. At one point, I found myself staring at them instead of eating.
