I’m 35, and my house has always been my pride and joy. I saved for years for the down payment and poured every ounce of energy into renovating it — fresh paint, new furniture, every detail perfect. It was my sanctuary.
A few days before my nephew Jason’s birthday, my phone rang late at night.
It was my sister, Lisa.
“Anna, we’re celebrating Jason’s birthday at your place! The cafés are either booked or too expensive, and our house is too small. YOU DON’T MIND, DO YOU?!”
I hesitated. “Lisa… I’m going on a two-day business trip. We could celebrate when I get back…”
“NO! Jason’s birthday has to be on that day. You know how important it is for a child. JUST LEAVE ME THE KEYS!”
I adored Jason and couldn’t say no. I pictured his happy, excited face and handed over the keys.
Two days later, I returned.
The front door was wide open.
The smell hit me first — sour juice, greasy food, stale frosting. My stomach dropped. I stepped inside and froze.
The carpet was ruined, cookies crushed into the couch, sticky fingerprints smeared across freshly painted walls. Trash littered every surface. Some of my new furniture was broken.
My hands shook as I called Lisa. “Lisa, how could you? I just finished renovating—”
“OH NO! IT’S JUST SOME SPILLED JUICE. DON’T BE DRAMATIC!” she snapped.
I hung up, furious. Thousands of dollars of work ruined, and she acted like it was nothing. I spent the next hours cleaning, my anger simmering. But karma… karma had a plan.
Two months later, my phone rang. I answered, and Lisa’s voice screamed through the line.
“YOU DID THIS TO ME?!”
I froze.
“What are you talking about?” I asked cautiously.
She was sobbing uncontrollably. “I left my house unlocked for my repairman… and he flooded everything! Furniture ruined, carpets soaked… EVERYTHING!”
A slow smile spread across my face.
“Oh, Lisa,” I said gently, “some lessons are unavoidable.”
She didn’t realize it yet, but this time, the chaos wasn’t my fault. And I’d never feel guilty for letting karma do its work.