I had been living with Brock for over a year, splitting everything 50/50. It was fine until his girlfriend, Sienna, started staying over three months ago. She never left. She was here every single night. Our utility bills shot up 40%. The electric bill went from $80 to $140. More cooking, longer showers, AC constantly running because Sienna works from home. But I was still splitting everything 50/50 with Brock while essentially supporting three people. I felt like a guest in my own apartment.
I’d hinted before, but Brock brushed me off. I was at my breaking point. I could barely afford rent as it was. Finally, I decided to have a serious conversation.
I pulled together our utility bills, highlighting the increases. I was going to talk to him. I waited until Sienna went to yoga class, and I sat Brock down at the kitchen table and laid everything out. “Look, I need to talk about Sienna living here. She’s been here every single day for three months. Our bills have gone up significantly, and I’m paying for a third person.”
Brock actually looked guilty. “You’re right. I didn’t realize it was affecting you this much. That’s not fair to you, man.”
“She needs to either start paying a third of everything, or she needs to stay at her own place more often,” I said, keeping my voice calm.
Brock nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get it. Let me talk to her this weekend. We’ll figure something out. Maybe she can contribute, or maybe she needs to be at her place more. I appreciate you being cool about this.”
Over the next few days, I noticed Sienna wasn’t around as much. She came by maybe two or three nights instead of every night. I felt this huge wave of relief washing over me. Like, finally, finally, this nightmare was getting resolved. Brock even texted me midweek. “Had a good conversation with Sienna. We’re working on a solution. Thanks for being patient with us. Really appreciate it.”
He Venmoed me his half of the utilities on time that month. He even added an extra $20 without me asking, like a peace offering. I stared at my phone, thinking, “Thank God. We handled this like adults.”
For about a week, everything felt normal again. But that didn’t last long.
Last Thursday, I came home from work around 6:00 in the evening. When I walked through the door, Brock and Sienna were sitting at the kitchen table, looking serious. But there was a third person with them. A man in a full business suit, briefcase open, documents spread across the table. I gulped before anyone even said a word.
Brock’s face was completely cold and expressionless. “This is our attorney, Harrison,” Brock said flatly, his voice like ice.
“Attorney?” I felt like I couldn’t breathe properly. “What’s going on? I thought we worked this out?”
Harrison adjusted his glasses and spoke in a formal, completely detached tone. “I’ll get straight to the point. Sienna has been residing at this address for over 60 days, which establishes legal tenancy in this state. She has full tenant rights under state law, but she doesn’t pay rent.”
I could hear my voice getting higher and more desperate. “She’s not even on the lease!”
“Payment isn’t required for tenancy establishment,” Harrison continued calmly, like he was reading from a script he’d memorized. “Duration of stay is what matters legally. Once someone has lived somewhere continuously for 60 days, they’re considered a legal tenant with all associated rights.”
Harrison slid a stack of papers across the table toward me. I saw my own text messages printed out, highlighted in bright yellow. The conversation where I told Brock that Sienna needed to pay or leave. Other texts where I’d complained about her being there constantly.
“We have documentation of your repeated harassment of our client,” Harrison said coldly. “Confrontational conversations creating a hostile living environment for a legal tenant.”
Harassment? My hands were shaking badly now. “I was just asking for things to be fair. I’m paying half of everything while she lives here completely free.”
“You were demanding a legal tenant vacate without proper cause,” Harrison continued. “That constitutes harassment under tenant protection laws.” He pushed an official-looking document toward me. It had a gold seal stamped at the top. “You have 30 days to vacate these premises voluntarily. If you refuse, we will file for formal eviction through the courts.”
Eviction? I was on the lease. I paid my rent on time every single month. My voice cracked with emotion, “I’m on the lease.”
“That’s precisely why we’re offering the voluntary option first,” Harrison said, without any emotion whatsoever. “An eviction on your record will make it nearly impossible to rent anywhere else.”
I looked directly at Brock. “This is my home.”
Brock’s voice was ice cold. “I’m the primary leaseholder. My name is first on the lease. I have full authority. We agreed.”
I felt tears starting to well up. “You said we’d figure it out together.”
Brock shrugged. “I said I’d handle it. I am.”
I had 30 days to leave my own apartment. I couldn’t afford a lawyer. How was this happening? I barely slept that night. I sat on my bed with my laptop open, typing roommate eviction laws and primary leaseholder rights into Google until my eyes burned. Every website I found talked about landlords evicting tenants or tenants suing landlords, but nothing addressed what happens when your roommate is trying to kick you out.
I clicked through page after page of legal jargon that didn’t apply to my situation. My hands shook so badly I had trouble typing. The reality kept hitting me in waves. I might actually be homeless in 30 days. I had nowhere to go. My savings account had maybe $800. First and last month’s rent anywhere else would cost at least $3,000.
I kept searching, getting more desperate with each useless result. Around 2:00 a.m., I found a tenant rights forum buried in the search results. Someone posted about a roommate dispute 3 years ago. I scrolled through the responses, and one comment made me stop breathing. A user named Tenant Advocate 2019 wrote that most lease modifications require all parties’ signatures, not just the primary leaseholder. I screenshot the comment immediately. My heart pounded as I read it again and again.
Maybe Brock didn’t have the unilateral power he claimed. Maybe Harrison was lying about everything. I screenshot the entire forum thread and saved it in three different places on my phone and laptop. It was the first spark of hope I’d felt since Harrison dropped those papers on the table. I spent another hour searching for information about dual-signature lease requirements, but I couldn’t find anything definitive for my state.
I finally passed out around 4:00 a.m. with my laptop still open. My alarm went off three hours later for work. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. My head throbbed, and my eyes felt like sandpaper. I called out sick because I genuinely couldn’t function. My supervisor sounded annoyed but approved it. I spent the entire morning calling every free legal aid clinic in the city. The first one had a wait list of 6 weeks. The second one said my income was slightly too high to qualify for their services. The third one didn’t handle landlord-tenant disputes. The fourth one was only taking domestic violence cases right now. I called 17 different places by noon. Most of them had similar responses. Booked solid for weeks. Income requirements I barely exceeded by a few hundred. Wrong type of case.
One paralegal at a clinic actually stayed on the phone with me for a few extra minutes. She sounded genuinely sympathetic as she told me off the record that tenant-on-tenant evictions were really complicated and I really needed a real attorney, not just legal aid. She gave me three names of attorneys who handled housing disputes. I called all three immediately. The first one didn’t return my voicemail. The second one’s assistant said they weren’t taking new clients. The third one was Craig Monahan. His assistant scheduled me for a consultation the next afternoon. The consultation fee alone was $200.
I checked my bank account three times before confirming the appointment. I could barely afford this, but I couldn’t afford not to try. I spent the rest of the day gathering every document I could find. My copy of the lease, every utility bill from the past six months, bank statements showing my rent payments, the papers Harrison gave me, screenshots of my text conversations with Brock. I put everything in a folder and couldn’t stop checking to make sure it was all there.
The next day, I took a long lunch break and drove to Craig’s office downtown. It was in a nice building that made me feel even more out of place. The waiting room had expensive-looking furniture and legal books lining the walls. Craig was probably in his 50s with gray hair and reading glasses. He shook my hand and gestured for me to sit down. I handed him the folder, and he spread everything across his desk.
He read through my lease first, then the utility bills, then Harrison’s eviction notice. I sat there sweating through my shirt while he reviewed everything. My entire future hung on whatever he was about to tell me.
After what felt like an hour, but was probably 10 minutes, Craig’s face changed. He looked up at me with something like relief in his eyes. He tapped the lease with his finger and said, “My roommate can’t evict me unilaterally because this lease requires both primary and secondary tenant signatures for any modifications or terminations, and Brock would need my agreement or a court order based on legitimate cause.”
I almost cried right there in his office. The relief was so intense, I felt dizzy. But then Craig kept talking and explained the bad news.
“Even though you have a strong case, you need to file a formal response to prevent Brock from pursuing eviction through the courts,” he said. “His retainer is $5,000 upfront.”
I felt my face fall before I could stop it. $5,000 might as well be $50,000 given my current financial situation. Craig saw my reaction, and his voice got gentler. He suggested I could try filing the paperwork myself, but he warned that one mistake could cost me everything.
“Courts are very particular about formatting and deadlines and legal language,” Craig said. “But we can do this if you really need it.”
I left his office with a stack of forms and instructions. I felt both hopeful and terrified. I had legal standing to fight this, but I was going up against Brock, who apparently had unlimited access to legal help through Harrison.
I spent my entire lunch break the next day sitting in my car in the work parking lot, filling out court forms. The legal terminology might as well have been another language. Words like “affirmative defense” and “motion to dismiss” and “verified complaint” swam in front of my eyes. I Googled half the terms just to understand what I was supposed to write.
Three days after the attorney ambush, I came home from work around 6:00. I tried to connect to the Wi-Fi to continue researching my case, and the password didn’t work. I tried it three more times, thinking I’d typed it wrong. Then I realized what had happened.
I found Brock in the kitchen and asked him about the Wi-Fi. He barely looked up from his phone and shrugged. “You’re not a permanent resident anymore, so you’re not entitled to household amenities.”
The cruelty was so casual, it took my breath away. I needed the internet to file my legal paperwork and research my case. This was deliberate sabotage.
I grabbed my laptop and documents and drove to the public library. It was open until 8. The librarian at the desk saw me looking lost and asked if I needed help. I explained I needed to file court documents online. She was incredibly kind and patient. She helped me scan all my documents and showed me how to use the court’s online portal.
The website was confusing, but she walked me through each step. As I hit the submit button, I felt like I’d at least done something instead of just waiting to be thrown out.
My phone buzzed a few minutes later with an email from the court clerk. A hearing date would be set within 30 days.
The next morning at work, my supervisor, Melody, called me into her office. There was someone from HR sitting there already. My stomach dropped before anyone even spoke. Melody’s face was completely neutral as she told me a complaint had been filed against me for stalking and harassing a former tenant of my apartment building.
She said there was evidence of threatening messages and unwanted contact. I was being terminated immediately for violating company conduct policies.
I tried to explain that I didn’t know what they were talking about, that there must be some mistake, but Melody held up her hand to stop me. She slid a folder across the desk, and I saw printed screenshots of text messages.
My phone number was at the top of each one. The messages said things like, “You’ll pay for this.” And, “I’m not letting this go.” And, “You think you can just take what’s mine?”
My hands started shaking as I read them because I never sent any of these. The HR person asked if I recognized my phone number, and I said yes, but I didn’t send these messages. Someone faked them somehow.
Melody’s face showed she didn’t believe me. She said the company took harassment seriously, and they couldn’t risk keeping an employee who stalks and threatens people.
I was trying to think straight, but my brain felt fuzzy. I asked who filed this complaint, and Melody said she couldn’t share that information due to privacy concerns.
Security showed up at the door within five minutes. A guard I’d seen around for two years walked me back to my desk while people stared. I grabbed my coffee mug, a framed photo, some pens. Everything fit in one small cardboard box.
My coworker Jake watched from across the room but didn’t say anything. The walk through the office felt like it took forever. Everyone knew what was happening when security escorted someone out. I could feel their eyes following me to the elevator.
The parking lot was nearly empty since it was only mid-morning. I sat in my car holding the box on my lap. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I stared at the office building for maybe 20 minutes, just trying to process what happened.
Then it clicked. Sienna. This had to be Sienna’s work. She must have doctored those screenshots somehow, made it look like the messages came from my number. She reported me to my company as the stalking victim. They weren’t just trying to evict me anymore. They were destroying my entire life, my income, my job history, my professional reputation.
I started the car, but I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t go back to the apartment. I drove to a coffee shop and sat in the parking lot trying to figure out my next move.
I needed Craig’s retainer money more than ever now, but I had just lost my income. My savings account had maybe $800. My credit card was already carrying a balance.
That evening, I was sitting in my car outside a different coffee shop because I couldn’t face going home yet. I pulled out my phone and called my parents.
My dad, Ashton, answered on the third ring. I tried to explain everything. The eviction threat, the fake attorney, Harrison, now losing my job over completely made-up stalking accusations. My voice kept cracking as I talked.
There was a long pause after I finished. Then my dad’s sigh, really heavy, and he said something that made my stomach drop. He told me they’d been talking to Brock.
I felt cold all over.
My dad explained that Brock called them a few days ago. Brock presented himself as the reasonable one trying to handle a difficult roommate situation. He told my parents I’d been harassing Sienna, refusing to accept that she lived at the apartment now, making everyone uncomfortable with my aggressive behavior.
My dad said Brock seemed very concerned about the whole situation. I tried to interrupt, but my dad kept talking. He said Brock explained how he tried to work things out with me, but I kept escalating and making threats.
My mom, Deline, got on the phone. Her voice had this disappointed tone that cut right through me. She said they raised me better than to make a woman feel unsafe in her own home. She told me I needed to accept that living situations change and people move in together.
I tried to explain that Sienna doesn’t pay any rent, that the whole eviction thing is a setup, that Harrison isn’t even a real attorney. My mom cut me off before I could finish.
She said Brock showed them the messages I sent threatening him and Sienna. She told me they’re not going to support this kind of behavior.
I realized with horror that Brock sent my parents the same fake screenshots that Sienna used to get me fired.
My own family thought I was the bad guy here. They believed I was some kind of unstable person harassing this poor couple.
My dad got back on the phone and told me they wouldn’t be providing any financial help until I got my priorities straight and apologized to those kids.
Those kids. He was calling Brock and Sienna kids like they were innocent victims.
My mom said in the background that she was praying I’d come to my senses.
The call ended, and I was sitting alone in my car outside this coffee shop. My job was gone. My apartment was being stolen. Now my own parents had turned against me. Every support system I had was gone.
I drove to the public library because I needed the internet, and I couldn’t go back to the apartment where Brock changed the Wi-Fi password. I sat at a computer terminal feeling completely numb.
The next week became pure survival mode. I filed for unemployment online, but the website said it takes weeks to process claims. The form asked why I left my last job, and I had to check the box for terminated. That probably meant I’d get denied anyway since it wasn’t a layoff.
I went to the grocery store and bought the cheapest food I could find. Ramen, noodles, peanut butter, bread. I used my credit card because my checking account was almost empty. The card was already carrying a $1,500 balance, but I didn’t have a choice. I needed to eat.
Back at the apartment, Brock and Sienna acted like I was invisible. They sat on the couch watching TV and didn’t even look at me when I walked through.
I started going through my stuff to see what I could sell. My gaming console that I saved up for last year. My bike that I barely ride anymore. Some old textbooks. I listed everything on Facebook Marketplace. A guy offered me $200 for the console, and I took it even though I paid $400. I needed cash right now.
My former coworker Hank Gentry messaged me on Facebook. He left the company last year to work somewhere else. He saw my posts selling stuff and asked if everything was okay. I broke down and told him the whole story over Messenger. The eviction threat, losing my job, my parents cutting me off, all of it.
Hank didn’t question whether I
