When my father died, I couldn’t sell his old country home. It wasn’t just wood and nails — it was where I grew up, where he taught me how to hang drywall and sharpen tools. So I decided to rent it out, hoping someone would treat it with respect. That hope lasted about a weekend.
I met Jodie and Brian — polite, employed couple with a teenage son, Josh. They promised to love the house the way I always had. Rent was paid on time for months, so I let my guard down. Then one Saturday I decided to stop by to grab an old tool box from the attic. Jodie insisted they’d be home and told me to come anytime.
The moment I opened the door, nostalgia vanished. A foul stench hit me — carpets stained, couch slashed, garbage everywhere. My father’s beloved leather chair was ripped open. “A crazy week?” Jodie said like it was nothing. Brian just stood there barefoot, unconcerned. A sinking weight settled in me — this wasn’t wear and tear, this was disrespect.
I didn’t scream or cry. I thanked them for letting me in, grabbed the toolbox quietly, and left. That night I called my lawyer and began the eviction process by the book.
When their tenancy ended, I expected worse — and found it. The basement was completely flooded. Water was halfway up my father’s workbench. Walls were peeling and warped from moisture. There was no question: damage was intentional.
I called the police and my insurance company. But before help even arrived, I got a call from Officer Leland — a family friend in law enforcement. He told me my tenants had crashed their SUV into a nearby fishing pond while trying to flee. The car was submerged, and while no one was seriously hurt, their escape turned into a spectacle.
The police logged their damage as intentional property destruction, and with all the photos and documentation I’d collected, the court ordered Jodie, Brian, and even Josh’s family to pay full restitution. They even had to sell Jodie’s mother’s jewelry just to start making payments.
I used the settlement to fix the basement — replacing walls, sealing the concrete, and installing a dehumidifier that would’ve made Dad proud. Then, finally, I hung his framed photo back on the wall where it belonged.
Now the house is quiet again — restored, peaceful, and full of memories, not chaos. Sometimes the wind rustles the trees out back and I swear I hear my dad humming off-key again. And now I smile, because I learned something important: Karma has its own timing — and it finds those who think they can get away with anything.
