I’m Rachel Porter, a single mom of three—Mason (11), Ava (7), and Lucas (4). We live in a modest two-bedroom apartment on the edge of town. The kids share a room; I sleep on a pull-out couch. It’s not much, but it’s safe, close to school, and near my job in logistics.
After years of scraping by, I finally got promoted to Operations Manager after eight years of hard work—never missing a day, always dependable. The raise wasn’t huge, but it gave me breathing room. I could buy better groceries and maybe replace Mason’s duct-taped sneakers.
Proud of the achievement, I posted on LinkedIn:
“Proud to say I’ve been promoted to Operations Manager. Hard work pays off!”
I didn’t expect anything—just a little recognition. But two days later, I received this email:
Subject: Rental Adjustment Notice
From: Frank Walters
Frank, my landlord, was an arrogant man who called himself “a real estate mogul,” but couldn’t fix a faucet. When my heater broke in winter, he once said, “Well, you’ve got kids—let them snuggle for warmth.”
His message read:
“Saw your little promotion post—congrats! Figured now’s the perfect time to squeeze a bit more out of you. New rent starts next month: $500 increase.
Business is business.”
I called him, shocked.
“Frank, what is this? You’re raising my rent—by five hundred dollars—just because I got a new job title?”
He replied smugly,
“You wanted a career and a bunch of kids—that comes with bills. You’re not broke anymore, so don’t expect charity. This is business, not a daycare.”
I was speechless. I hung up, shaken, trying not to cry as Mason looked on, concerned.
Then, I made a plan. One that would cost me nothing—and teach Frank a lesson he’d never forget.
The Plan
That night, I pulled out the lease agreement I had saved in a file folder. I read every line, especially the fine print. Something caught my eye—an illegal clause.
Frank had never registered the property with the city as a rental unit, which, by law, meant he wasn’t even supposed to be collecting rent from tenants. That little detail? It gave me leverage.
The next day, during my lunch break, I visited the local Housing Authority. I brought the lease, emails, and photos of our faulty heater, broken stair rail, and black mold in the bathroom that Frank always “forgot” to fix.
The housing officer raised her eyebrows. “This isn’t just unethical—it’s illegal. And you’re not the first tenant to complain.”
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She gave me a case number and promised a full inspection. She also connected me with a tenants’ rights attorney—pro bono.
Two Weeks Later
A city inspector showed up at our apartment. Frank wasn’t expecting him.
He tried to block the door, blustering, “You need to give me 24-hour notice!”
But the inspector calmly replied, “Actually, since this is a formal complaint and your unit isn’t registered, we don’t.”
Inside, he documented everything: exposed wires, broken tiles, lack of smoke detectors, and that mold. He took photos and notes. I didn’t even need to say a word.
One Month Later
Frank was fined $12,000 for operating unlicensed rental units. He was also ordered to refund six months of rent to multiple tenants, myself included. His properties were placed under review, and he had to make all the necessary repairs—or face eviction orders for himself.
As for that $500 increase? Illegal. Null and void.
Frank sent me a long, angry email accusing me of “betrayal” and “playing dirty.”
I replied with one sentence:
“This is business, not a daycare.”
The Aftermath
A few weeks later, Frank sold the property. A new landlord took over—a management company that actually fixes things and respects tenants.
And that LinkedIn promotion post?
It ended up doing more for me than just celebrate my hard work. It reminded me that I’m not powerless.
I don’t sleep on the couch anymore, either. Thanks to the refund and a small bonus from work, I was able to buy us a better place—three bedrooms, real beds for everyone, and no more broken heaters.
Funny how one man’s greed gave me the final push I needed.
