Standing in the doorway was no visiting brother. Instead, there were two young men lounging on the couch, surrounded by pizza boxes and beer cans, a video game blasting on the TV. One of them lazily glanced at me and muttered, “You lost or something?”
My heart sank. This wasn’t a family visit. This was a party house.“I’m the tenant,” I said, my voice sharp with anger. “What are you doing in my home?”
The second man, slightly more sober-looking, got up and scratched his head. “Oh, Peterson’s letting us crash here for the week. Said the place was empty. Who are you again?””I live here with my kids,” I snapped, stepping inside. My eyes darted around the living room, now a disaster zone. A lamp was knocked over, muddy footprints trailed across the rug, and empty bottles cluttered the kitchen counter.
I clenched my fists, fury boiling inside me. “Where’s Mr. Floppy?” I demanded.Both men exchanged a confused glance. “Uh… what?”
“My daughter’s stuffed bunny. It was on her bed.”They shrugged. “We didn’t touch no bunny.”
I marched past them into the bedrooms. Sophie’s bed was stripped bare, her carefully arranged toys tossed into a pile. My heart ached. This was her safe space, and these strangers had trampled all over it.I found Mr. Floppy wedged under the bedframe, a bit dusty but intact. Holding it tightly, I stormed back into the living room.
“This is illegal,” I seethed. “You can’t just kick someone out and rent the house to someone else.”The first man shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Take it up with Peterson.”
“Oh, trust me, I will,” I shot back. “But first, you’re leaving.”They laughed. “Yeah, right. Peterson gave us the keys.”
I pulled out my phone and started recording. “Here’s the thing. I have a lease. You two are trespassing. So unless you want me to call the cops and have this all on record, I suggest you pack up and get out.”Their smugness evaporated. The sober one muttered, “Fine. Whatever.” They began gathering their things, grumbling about “crazy ladies” and “bad luck.”
Once they left, I called a locksmith and had the locks changed immediately. Then, I filed a complaint with the local housing authority and started looking up tenants’ rights in my state.When Peterson showed up the next day, furious about the lock change, I met him at the door with a folder of documentation. “I’ve already reported you for illegal eviction. If you try anything else, I’ll be filing a lawsuit next. Now, I suggest you stay far away from me and my family.”
His face turned red, but he didn’t argue. He stormed off, muttering under his breath.That night, as my daughters and I sat on the couch with Mr. Floppy safely back in Sophie’s arms, I felt a new sense of resolve. This was our home, and no one was going to take it from us again.