I found a great apartment and invited friends to join. It was a miracle find—a spacious three-bedroom in the city center that was somehow within our budget. Because I found it, I handled the lease paperwork, and since my roommates, Jessica and Chloe, were tight on cash, I didn’t ask them to contribute to the common areas. I furnished it mostly with things my parents gave me—a vintage leather sofa, a 65-inch TV, a dining set, and fully stocked kitchenware. They just had to bring their beds.
For a year, things were great. Then, tragedy struck. My grandmother, who practically raised me, passed away after a short illness. I was devastated.
A few weeks after the funeral, I received a small inheritance. It wasn’t life-changing money—just enough to maybe put a down payment on a small car or pad my savings. One night, while we were watching a movie, I mentioned it to them. I told my roommates, just in conversation, seeking a bit of comfort.
“I’m going to put it all in savings,” I told them, wiping away a tear. “It’s the last thing she gave me.”
I thought they understood.
The next day, they hit me with: “Since you got that inheritance, we decided you should pay more rent. Well, you can afford it now.”
I came home from work to find them sitting at the dining table (my dining table) with a serious look on their faces.
“We’ve been talking,” Jessica started, crossing her arms. “Since you came into that money, we think it’s only fair that you cover 60% of the rent moving forward. It would really help us out, and obviously, you have the liquidity.”
I was stunned. I was still grieving. They acted like my inheritance was a lottery win for the whole apartment rather than a consolation for losing a family member.
“My grandmother died,” I said, my voice shaking. “That money isn’t income. It’s because someone I love is gone. You want to profit off my grief?”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. You have extra cash, we’re struggling. Friends help friends.”
“Friends don’t count other friends’ money,” I snapped.
They gave me an ultimatum: pay the extra rent starting next month, or they would make my life “uncomfortable.” They assumed I was trapped. They assumed I wouldn’t want to lose the apartment I had worked so hard to find.
They forgot one tiny detail: I found the apartment. My name was the only one on the primary lease; they were listed as occupants.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. I just went into my room and made a phone call to the landlord.
The next morning, I handed them both 30-day notices to vacate.
“You can’t do this!” Jessica screamed. “Where are we supposed to go?”
“I don’t know,” I said calmly. “But since you’re struggling so much, maybe you can find a place that doesn’t require a security deposit. Oh, and by the way? The TV, the couch, the microwave, and the dining table go with me or stay with me. You’ll need to buy your own furniture for your next place.”
They spent the next month begging, apologizing, and trying to backtrack, saying it was “just a suggestion.” But I had seen their true colors. I used a tiny portion of my grandmother’s inheritance to cover the rent for a month while I searched for new, decent roommates—people who didn’t view my loss as their payday.
