When Anna, a single mother of three, finally earned a promotion, her sleazy landlord saw it as an opportunity—not to congratulate her, but to squeeze her for more rent. But what he didn’t realize was that pushing a woman already stretched thin, one who had spent years giving everything she had, was a grave mistake. Anna was done being polite.
I’ve never had the luxury of being petty. Between my full-time job and raising three kids, I simply don’t have the time. My name’s Anna. I’m 36, and my children—Liam (11), Maya (7), and Atlas (4)—are my everything. Liam is thoughtful and observant. Maya is fierce, loud, and full of questions. And Atlas, my baby, is all heart and boundless curiosity.
I’ve worked my way up at a logistics company, and recently, after years of juggling deadlines and diaper changes, I was promoted to Operations Manager. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine—a personal victory. We’d been living in a modest two-bedroom rental for five years. I slept on a pull-out couch so the kids could have the rooms. My back hated it, but it was a small price to pay for stability.
Our place wasn’t fancy, but it was home—clean, close to school and work, and most importantly, safe. That meant everything to me. The rent was manageable, even if it crept up every year. I paid it on time, every single month.
Frank, our landlord, was difficult. He’d ignore messages, delay repairs, and once even told me, “With all those kids, you should be grateful you’ve got a place at all.” He didn’t see me as a responsible tenant—just as a single mom he assumed was one missed paycheck away from eviction. When our heater broke one winter, I texted three times. His response? “Layer up, Anna. It’s not that cold.”
Despite it all, I stayed. Moving was expensive, and finding something safe and affordable was almost impossible. I stayed for the kids. I stayed because I was tired. And then came the promotion.
I was proud. I posted a short update on LinkedIn: “After years of balancing work and motherhood, I’ve officially been promoted to Operations Manager.” I didn’t expect a celebration, but kind messages rolled in—coworkers, old friends, even other moms. One woman wrote, “You make the impossible look easy.” I read that message three times and cried in the breakroom. Just a little.
Two days later, I got an email from Frank. Subject: Rental Adjustment Notice. My rent was increasing by $500. No upgrades, no improvements—just punishment for succeeding.
“I saw your little promotion post,” he wrote. “Congrats! Figured now’s the perfect time to ask for a bit more.” I called him immediately, voice shaking. “Frank, that’s a massive increase. I’ve never missed rent. We have a lease—” “You wanted a career and kids,” he interrupted, laughing. “That comes with bills. If you’re making more, you can pay more. This is business, not a daycare.”
I hung up. I stood in the kitchen, stunned. Liam found me there, barefoot and quiet. “You okay?” he asked. “Just tired,” I replied. “We’ll be okay,” he said. “You always figure it out.” He believed in me. I wasn’t about to let him down.
That night, I made a decision. I posted in every local housing and parenting group I could find. “Looking for a rental? Avoid [address]. Landlord just raised my rent $500 because I got promoted. Punishing single moms for working hard? Not today.” No names—just facts.
The response was overwhelming. Women shared their own horror stories. One said Frank made her pay six months upfront because “women are flakey.” Another had screenshots of him calling mold “just cosmetic.” Two days later, Frank texted me.
“Hey Anna. Maybe the increase was too fast. Let’s keep rent the same, okay?”
I waited until the kids were asleep before I replied. “Thanks, Frank. But I’ve already signed a lease somewhere else. Also—make sure to list the place as ‘pet-free.’ The rats under the sink probably won’t like the new tenant’s cat.” He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. That was my notice.
We moved out at the end of the month. I didn’t cry. I didn’t look back. Our new landlord, Mrs. Calder, welcomed us with a basket of muffins and a handwritten note. She remembered the kids’ names. When I got teary, she pretended not to notice.
A week later, Frank’s listing showed up online. The rent was $300 cheaper. Still, no takers. And then the DMs started:
“Thanks for the post. I needed that push to leave.”
“He tried the same thing with me—never again.”
Respect is free. And finally, we had it.
Weeks later, once the boxes were unpacked and the place smelled more like home than cardboard, I invited Mrs. Calder to dinner. She brought peach cobbler and sunflowers. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal with kids around in years,” she said. “This is already my favorite dinner.”
That evening was filled with laughter, second helpings, and sticky little fingers. “You’ve made this house a home, Anna,” Mrs. Calder smiled. “Not many people can do that in just a few weeks.”
And for the first time in a long while, I believed her.