Anna is a single mom of three, and just when she finally lands a promotion, her shady landlord decides to hike up the rent—just because he can. What he doesn’t know is that it’s a terrible idea to push a woman who’s exhausted, done playing nice, and has absolutely nothing left to lose.
Usually, I’m not the kind of person to be petty. I don’t have the luxury. Being selfish never fit into my life—not with three kids and a full-time job. But people who try to take away my peace, my kids’ stability, and the roof over our heads just because I finally caught a break?
Fine. I’m not going down quietly. I’m going down making a plan.
Let me take you back.
I’m Anna, 36 years old, raising three kids on my own. Liam, my eleven-year-old, is the kind of boy who holds doors open without being asked and notices when I’ve had a rough day—but never says anything about it.
Maya, seven, is bold and loud and fearless—she’s always the one to ask the questions everyone else avoids. And then there’s Atlas, my four-year-old. I do my best to tame his wild curls, but they always bounce back. He runs around in Lightning McQueen socks, looking like a mini tornado.
Our mornings begin before sunrise. I’m up early, tying shoes, brushing hair, packing food, reheating day-old coffee—and never quite finishing everything. I was recently hired as an Operations Manager at a transport company. Still, I work full-time as a team lead.
After eight years of staying late, skipping breaks, and never once calling in sick, someone finally noticed. It wasn’t a huge raise, but it was enough to make room for small yeses to my children.
Shoes without holes. A school field trip without dipping into next month’s grocery budget. Name-brand cereal.
We’d been living in a modest two-bedroom rental for five years—since not long after we moved in, and just before Ed, their father, walked out for good. The kids shared a bunk bed that creaked with every turn. I crashed on a pull-out couch, my back aching from stress and exhaustion.
Still, it was ours.
Clean, safe, and only fifteen minutes from school and work. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt like home.
Frank, the landlord, liked owning things—especially other people’s silence. He was slow to respond, never fixed anything on time, and once even told me, “With all those kids, you should be grateful to have a place at all.”
I swallowed my pride and kept paying the rent—because stability mattered. Until he decided to charge me more for it.
Frank always treated me like a tenant who got lucky. Like I was disposable. A woman who’d be evicted the second she stumbled.
Maintenance requests were met with silence—or eventually, grumbling. When the heater broke in December?
He texted me three times before replying, “Just bundle up, Anna. It’s not that cold.”
And when the kitchen faucet exploded like a rusty geyser, soaking my shoes and nearly electrocuting the toaster?
“If it’s urgent, I can drop by next Thursday.”
Of course, it was never “urgent” enough for him. Not the bugs. Not the mold. Not the front door lock that jammed every time it rained. Asking for basic safety felt like asking too much.
But the worst part?
Whenever we crossed paths, he looked at me like a walking cautionary tale, not a human being. He once smiled and said, “Be grateful you’ve got a roof over your head with all those kids.”
It made my kids feel like baggage. Like our home was charity, not a lease.
Still, I paid—on time, every month. Moving is expensive, and even with the occasional increase, the rent was lower than most places nearby.
Then came the promotion.
It wasn’t flashy. No celebration. Just a quiet win I posted on LinkedIn.
“I’m proud to be promoted to Operations Manager after years of working full-time while raising three amazing kids. Hard work pays off!”
I didn’t expect applause, but the responses flooded in—colleagues, old friends, even a mom from daycare I barely knew sent kind messages.
“You make the impossible look easy.”
I read that one three times.
I teared up in the breakroom. Just a few peaceful tears. I felt seen. For the first time in a long time, someone saw me.
Two days later, Frank emailed me.
Notice of Change to Rental Agreement
Rent increase: $500. No explanation.
“Congrats on the new job! Thought this might be a good time to get a little more from you.”
I stared at the screen, hoping the words would rearrange themselves into something less disgusting. Surely it was a mistake.
I called him, my hand trembling.
“Frank, that’s a huge increase,” I said calmly. “I’ve always paid on time. We have a lease—”
He cut me off with a laugh. “Look, you chose to have a job and a bunch of kids. That costs money. You’re not poor anymore, so don’t expect charity. People who earn more can afford more. It’s just math. And this isn’t a daycare, Anna.”
My mouth went dry. I dropped the phone into my lap. Laughter drifted in from the living room—my kids, innocent and unaware. I felt sick.
I hung up without another word.
That night, after tucking in three little bodies under mismatched blankets, I sat in the laundry room staring at a pile of unmatched socks. And I broke.
Not out loud. You learn how to cry silently when you have kids. The kind of crying that burns your chest. That’s the kind I did.
Liam found me there—barefoot, quiet, kind.
“You okay?” he asked.
I forced a smile. “Just tired.”
He nodded and sat beside me, back against the dryer.
“We’ll be okay,” he said. “You always figure it out.”
And that hit harder than anything Frank ever said. That’s when I decided: I wasn’t going to beg. Not Frank. Not anyone.
I gave my 30-day notice that week. No drama. Just a signed letter slipped into his mailbox. My official resignation from his nonsense.
That same night, I posted in every local parenting and rental group:
Looking for a family-friendly rental? Stay far away from 116 Muscut Avenue. My landlord raised the rent by $500 when I got promoted. Punishing working moms for succeeding? Not today.
I didn’t name him. Didn’t have to.
The post exploded overnight.
Moms flooded the comments with horror stories. One said he made her prepay six months because “women are flaky.” Another shared screenshots of him refusing to address mold because “it’s just cosmetic, Jane.”
He became a meme. Someone called him “a slumlord in a polo shirt.” Another said he told her to “marry rich if you want better maintenance.”
Then Jodie, a PTA mom, messaged me privately:
“Anna, he showed me the same unit and said my husband would have to co-sign. Just in case I got pregnant and couldn’t work.”
She had receipts—and she posted them.
Two days later, a local real estate watchdog page picked up the story. Someone made a TikTok with piano music and side-by-side comparisons of his crusty listing and my original post.
It was glorious.
Then, guess who texted me?
“Hi Anna. I’ve been thinking. That rent increase was probably a bit steep. Let’s just keep things the way they were.”
I didn’t reply right away.
Instead, I picked Maya up from dance—sweaty and sparkly. Atlas had made a “rocket dog” out of paper and tape at preschool. Liam was deep into long division, chewing his pencil to bits.
I kissed each of their heads—Maya fast, Atlas sticky, Liam slightly embarrassed.
I made grilled cheese with the last slices of bread. We were out of milk, again. I read The Gruffalo twice because Atlas begged for the scary voice.
Later, after they were asleep, I finally replied.
“Thanks, Frank. But I’ve already signed a new lease. Just make sure the place is listed pet-free. The rats under the sink might not get along with the new neighbor’s cat.”
He didn’t respond. I assumed that meant he got the message.
We moved out at the end of the month. I closed the door without crying. Just turned and walked away.
A friend from the housing group connected me with her cousin’s landlord. That’s how we found our new place. It’s smaller, but all three kids have real beds.
No more squeaky bunks. No more couch springs in my back. The yard’s a little wild.
Atlas calls it his farm.
On our first weekend, Maya made a flower crown out of dandelions. Liam claimed the room with the best light and started drawing again.
And our new landlord, Mrs. Calder?
She brought us muffins and a handwritten card. A week later, she still remembered all our names. She didn’t say anything when I cried a little. Just smiled like she understood.
That night, after unpacking, chargers tangling, someone missing a shoe—we laid on the living room floor together.
“Is this our forever home?” Atlas whispered.
I smiled. “It’s our better home. Maybe our forever one. Let’s see, okay?”
A week later, Frank’s listing appeared online—rent reduced by $300. Still no takers.
I still get messages.
“Your post gave me the push I needed to leave.”
“He did the same thing to me. Never again.”
Turns out, in a world where rent climbs faster than hope, word of mouth is powerful.
And respect? It’s free.
You don’t get to treat single moms like we’re too tired to fight. We’re carrying diaper bags and receipts and bills. We remember everything.
A few weeks after settling in, the place finally smelled like us—not boxes and dust. I invited Mrs. Calder over for dinner.
I didn’t have much, but I cooked like I meant it: roasted chicken, potatoes, carrots with herbs. Liam peeled carrots like he was on a cooking show. Maya sprinkled rosemary like magic dust. Atlas was supposed to butter rolls but ended up with it on his cheek.
Mrs. Calder brought roses and peach cobbler. Her sweater had cats. She beamed as she walked in.
“I haven’t had a home-cooked meal with kids in years,” she said. “This is already my favorite dinner.”
There was laughter. Seconds. Extra sauce. Liam explained smashed potatoes absorb flavor better. Maya said the chicken was extra juicy because she “sent it good vibes.” Atlas cried, dropped his roll, then cheered when it bounced back onto his plate.
At one point, I stopped eating and just stared at them. My kids. Loud. Safe. Whole.
“You’ve made this house feel like a home,” Mrs. Calder said softly. “Not everyone can do that in just a few weeks.”
I couldn’t speak. I just smiled.
For the first time in forever, it didn’t feel like we were barely getting by.
It felt like we belonged.