Off The Record
My Landlord Evicted Me For Unpaid Rent—But I’d Been Giving My Grandson The Money All Along
Minerva, who is 72 years old, entrusts her grandson with everything, including her roof. She encounters betrayal, loss, and an unexpected ally as her peaceful life is upended by a knock at the door. Minerva must determine what family really means and how to regain her strength in the wreckage of trust.
I never imagined that I would be sleeping at a shelter at the age of 72.
I’ve always put in a lot of effort, paid my bills on time, and had a clean home. I had enough to live comfortably, but I wasn’t wealthy.
The quiet in our home grew intolerable after the death of my husband, John. Once reassuring, the sound of the kettle boiling now reverberated through the void.
As a result, I sold our home and moved into a modest city apartment. I desired to be nearer to the medical facility. At my age, too? It seemed more sensible to be close to care than to do anything fanciful.
I sold the house to my grandson, Tyler, for a symbolic dollar rather than trying to find a buyer. The money didn’t matter to me. I really had nothing left but Tyler. After a protracted illness, his mother, my daughter Molly, passed away a few years ago. Despite her advanced age of 43, she remained gentle and kind throughout her life.
It was like losing all the color in the world to lose her.
Her only child, Tyler, occasionally made me think of her because of the way he frowned when he was thinking too much or the curve of his smile. I guess that’s why I held on to him tighter. I wanted to think that inherited love stayed solid and resilient.
“Are you sure about this, Gran?” Tyler had asked, his hands shaking as he held the deed. “It’s your home.”
With gentleness, I said, “It was mine,” But when Grandpa was around, it was all mine. It seems to belong to ghosts now.
John and I met at a bakery. He looked truly devastated when I told him that I didn’t like almond croissants.
He responded, “That’s a tragedy,” but he still purchased two. “But I’ll fix that.”
And he did. Everything was fixed by him. John took care of everything, even my mood swings, the wobbling stove knob, the leaky sink, and the loose drawer in the bedroom. He always showed up with little deeds of kindness and was gentle and sincere. In winter, he even warmed my side of the bed by rolling about it, making it smell and feel just like him.
He’d remark, “Come on, Minerva,” thereafter. “The bed’s toasty!”
In the rain, he walked Molly to school. He sobbed in the kitchen while feigning to chop onions for the stew I was making when she departed for college.
Molly also had John’s smile. It was broad and somewhat curved, as if she was about to burst out laughing. She used to make too much food and hum while cooking, never exactly in tune.
“Someone might stop by, Mom,” she would shrug as she poured soup into containers we would never use.
She was open-hearted, a little disorganized, and generous like that. Her dream was to become a writer. Her small stories are still hidden in crates.
However, cancer struck without warning. Her voice came first, followed by her appetite and strength. Something inside of me went silent when she passed away. It’s just… still, not broken.
How could I stay in that house after all that?
After the funeral for Molly, I relocated to the city. Tyler volunteered to take care of my rent.
With that same skewed smile, he replied, “Grant, you shouldn’t have to worry about the internet stuff.” “Just give me the money and I’ll take care of the rest.”
It felt natural. As if the tenderness I had shown Molly had reverberated through him.
However, I had no idea that kindness would end up being my downfall.
I put the precise amount of rent in an envelope during the first week of each month. I occasionally added a bit extra, in case the utility bills changed.
Tyler would come over and get it, eager to consume whatever I had prepared.
He’d say, “It’s all handled, Gran,” “I’ll take care of this when I go now. There is nothing to be concerned about.”
I also wasn’t concerned. I put my life in his hands.
That is, until Tyler gave me every reason to doubt him.
The door was knocked on two weeks ago. Anticipating a delivery or perhaps a neighbor in need of sugar, I opened it. It was my landlord, Michael, instead. His shoulders were pulled as if he detested what he was going to say, and his hands were buried deep in his coat pockets.
Softly, “Minerva,” he said. “I apologize, but it’s been three months since you paid your rent. Evicting you is my only option.”
I said, “That… that can’t be right, Michael,” in disbelief. “My grandson has received the money from me. Like clockwork, he resolves it once a month.”
Michael’s jaws was clenched as he gazed down.
“A lease with new renters has already been signed by me. The flat must be returned by the weekend. I apologize.”
I muttered, “There must be some mistake,” as I gripped my cardigan. My voice had become smaller and quieter. “Tyler always pays the rent and he always does it on time.”
His nod was empathetic. “I wish that were true,” he said.
Michael remained silent. He didn’t speak louder. It hurt more that he simply left than if he had screamed at me.
I spent hours sitting on my bed that night without even sobbing. I packed my medicine, a framed picture of Molly, a few changes of clothes, and a tiny overnight bag. I left everything else behind. The following morning, I gave the movers a call.
They decided to temporarily store everything.
“We’ll keep it, Aunt Minerva,” the moving company manager declared. “I owe you for all the free babysitting you’ve done for my kids.”
The shelter was a squat brick structure with flickering lights and flaking paint. The intake worker, Helen, sounded like someone who had seen too much, but she had a compassionate gaze.
She handed me a folded blanket and added, “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t have any private rooms.” “Those are for moms who are nursing and their infants. However, we’ll try our best to accommodate you.”
I nodded and muttered, “Thank you,” despite the fact that I was a nervous mess inside. “I just need a place to catch my breath, dear.”
Helen grinned and said, “Then this is the right place,” “Let’s help you get comfortable. Tonight’s dinner will consist of garlic buns and chicken soup.”
I sat and the bed squeaked. Only cotton spread over springs made up the tiny mattress.
I had trouble sleeping that night. Across from me, a woman softly sobbed. With her back to the room, another murmured into a phone. I lay there listening to the quiet hum of a fan that didn’t quite reach our side of the room, the rustle of plastic bags, and the occasional cough.
I forced myself not to cry as I gazed at the ceiling.
Still, the tears came.
I shed tears for John. For Molly, too. For the home that was no longer mine, I wept. And for the flat where I had come to find solace.
Even though the treachery had not yet been made public, it had already wrapped itself around my bones, and I felt ashamed to be here.
The bed was a kind of punishment. My feet were not covered by the blanket. The metal bar under the mattress hurt my hip. Like I was attempting to shield something, my hands continued to curl around my chest.
When I looked in the mirror in the morning, I didn’t recognize the woman. The skin beneath my eyes was thick and bruised from tiredness, and my eyes were red.
Under the bright bathroom light, my skin appeared sallow and colorless, and my hair hung limp, dull strands cascading across my cheeks. I brushed my hair with shaky fingers and sprayed cold water on my face, observing the drips slide down my neck. Then, since you do that, I folded the thin shelter blanket.
Even when your heart is crushed, you make the bed because it seems like the only thing you can control is order.
I gave Tyler a call later that day. Despite my trembling voice, I tried to sound composed. Gently at first, I asked him if there had been a mistake.
His words were, “I paid it, Gran,” “Perhaps Michael made a mistake. He didn’t take things seriously enough, I told you. You are aware of the nature of landlords.”
“Perhaps I might spend a couple of nights with you and Lizzie, my love? Just while we work this out.” I twisted the phone wire over my fingers and whispered that. “I don’t think I can stay here much longer…”
Before Tyler spoke, there was a pause.
Gran, I don’t think that will work. In addition, Lizzie’s parents will be here the following week. It has been verified. I will thus require the guest bedroom for them.
“Oh,” I muttered. “Obviously, Tyler. I get it.”
However, I didn’t. Not at all. I hung up and looked at the wall of the shelter. It had cracks close to the ceiling and was off-white. I counted each line as if it were a response.
I attempted to believe my grandson throughout the course of the following few days. There must have been an error, I assured myself. Michael might have misplaced a receipt. The bank might have made a mistake. But every day doubt crept closer and closer to the periphery of my thoughts like a shadow.
Then, when breakfast trays were being distributed the following morning, a well-known person entered the shelter’s dining hall.
Elizabeth. Or Lizzie, as Tyler referred to her.
She appeared to have gone days without sleep. Her lips were squeezed into a tight line, and her eyes were ringing with exhaustion. She held on to her pocketbook as if it were the only thing that was solid.
“Minerva,” she muttered, tears in her eyes. “I brought some croissants with almonds for you. Can we have a conversation?”
We went outside. Her hands were a little shaky, and the sidewalk hadn’t warmed up yet.
She whispered, “I have to confess,” and her voice cracked like a sharp stone. “He has been… Tyler has been keeping everything for himself. Minerva, he hasn’t paid your rent for three months. Additionally, he misled you about how much it was before that. He had been holding onto the additional money. Every month, all five hundred dollars.”
My chest tightened every breath. I carefully sat down after reaching for the bench behind me.
“But why?” With a raspy voice, I asked.
When Lizzie remarked, “Because he has a child,” “With a different female. In addition, he has been paying child support covertly. He has been so… awful.”
She inhaled deeply and let out a sigh.
He left his laptop open, which is how I found out. Our anniversary is approaching, so I just wanted to look up a recipe—I wasn’t spying or anything. My goal was to create something unique. And, of all things, there it was—a Reddit post. Tyler was asking online strangers if he was the bad guy for deceiving his grandma and stealing her money, as well as for lying to his wife about the child.
The street sounds faded for a minute. The edges of the world appeared to blur.
“Do you still have the post?” I succeeded.
Elizabeth said, “I saved a screenshot,” and she nodded.
I muttered, “Good girl,” and gathered her in a firm embrace. “I apologize, my love; I never imagined Tyler would turn out to be so awful. How will you proceed?”
“Divorce him,” was all she said. “I won’t stay with someone who cheats and steals.”
I believed her after seeing the rage in her eyes.
After we returned to the shelter’s sitting area, I made a Facebook post with her assistance. It wasn’t defamatory. It was merely the facts, a straightforward account of what had transpired. I didn’t use any dramatization or names.
It spread in a matter of minutes. My neighbors, church members, and even former pupils made indignant comments.
They were familiar with me. They were aware of my personality. They were aware that this was not done for show.
That night, Tyler gave me a call.
He demanded, “Gran, what the hell?” “You should remove the post immediately. I might lose my job if my supervisor finds out.”
“Oh, Tyler,” I remarked as I sipped my tea. “It’s odd that when your comfort is at risk, you’re just concerned about your reputation. When you left me without a place to sleep, you showed no concern for my.
His words were, “Just delete it,” “You don’t understand how bad this could get.”
“I understand perfectly, you selfish boy,” I responded. “And I’ll remove it. On one stipulation.”
He fell silent.
When I said, “You sell me back the house,” “For the precise amount you spent on it. One dollar. Not one dime more.”
He blew up. Damned. accused me of being unfaithful. He used all the guilt trips he could think of. He ran out of steam while I sat there sipping my tea.
He grunted angrily and finally consented.
“All right.” He said, “You’ll get your damn house back.” Perhaps Lizzie’s parents will be more concerned about us than you are. It’s unbelievable that you’re taking us home.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, grandson,” I replied.
I received assistance with the paperwork from Elizabeth’s attorney. Lizzie’s divorce papers were prepared in less than a week, and my name was once again on the deed. The house was mine, even though it was no longer near the grocery store or the hospital.
And I couldn’t be thrown out again.
The late afternoon sun spilled across the wooden planks as Lizzie and I sat on the porch a month later. A blueberry pie, still warm from the oven, was resting between us. I handed us each a generous portion after gently cutting into it with a knife that glided through the crust.
“Blueberries were always Molly’s favorite,” I whispered quietly as I placed a platter in Lizzie’s view.
Lizzie grinned at me and added, “Then it feels right to share this with you,”
For a while, the sweetness of the berries lingered while we ate in friendly solitude. Lizzie then put down her fork and grabbed my hand.
Her words were, “I want you to know something,” “Every weekend, I’ll be here to take you grocery shopping. We’ll schedule monthly appointments for hair, nails, and other services. We’ll go out to eat, see the doctor, and do anything else you need. You’ll never be left alone again.”
My eyes pinched with tears, but this time they weren’t tears of sadness. I gave her hand a squeeze.
I said, “Thank you, dear,” “I think Molly would’ve loved you.”
Lizzie uttered the words, “I have one condition though,” as she laughed. Help me find a John of my own, please. “I want to spend my later years with someone who isn’t as awful and dishonest as Tyler.”
I felt at home for the first time in years as I nodded.
At 72, I believed that losing everything was the end. However, it wasn’t. It was the start of getting my voice back. And lastly, realizing that sometimes family isn’t about genetic ties but about who knows your reality.
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