I’d lived in that flat for three years. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was mine—close to work, with just enough sunlight through the kitchen window to make mornings feel warm. Then one afternoon, my landlady called to say the place was being put up for sale. I had a month to leave.
During my final week there, I scrubbed every corner. Baseboards, windows, even the oven that had long outlived its shine. Part of it was about getting my deposit back, but it was more than that—it felt like the proper way to say goodbye. When I handed over the keys, I felt a mix of sadness and relief. Everything was spotless.
The next day, my phone rang. It was my landlady. My chest tightened, convinced she’d found some hidden damage I’d missed. Bracing myself, I picked up—only to hear her cheerful voice.
She thanked me repeatedly for how immaculate the place was, saying she hadn’t had a tenant leave it in such good condition in years. I laughed nervously, finally starting to breathe again. Then came the words that caught me off guard.
“Tell me,” she asked, “why would you move out when you cared for it like this? You’re the kind of tenant every landlord hopes for.”
I didn’t know how to answer. The truth was, I would’ve stayed if I had the choice. That little flat had been more than just walls and rent—it had been home.
But all I said was, “Sometimes, it’s not up to us.”
