I thought offering my basement apartment to someone I knew would be simple. Instead, it spiraled into slammed doors, screaming accusations, and me questioning why I ever thought being generous was a good idea.
Have you ever done something nice for someone, only to have it explode in your face? That’s exactly what happened to me — all because of a basement and a “favor.”
About a year ago, I got the kind of chance most people in their twenties only fantasize about. My last living grandparent passed away. It was painful, of course, but after the estate was settled, my dad called me.
“You know Grandma’s place? You want it?” he asked casually.
I froze. “What do you mean… do I want it?”
“I don’t. Your stepmom doesn’t either. If you’re interested, I’ll sell it to you at a discount. Seventy-five percent of market value. Deal?”
I nearly spit out my coffee. I’d been saving every penny, juggling side hustles, living with roommates. Suddenly, I could afford it. I put down a big chunk in cash, financed the rest, and within weeks, the house — mortgage, keys, everything — was mine.
It wasn’t fancy, but solid: a decent single-family home. The basement had already been converted into a private two-bedroom apartment with its own entrance, bath, kitchenette, and utilities. My dad and stepmom mentioned they might use it someday when they retired, but for now, it just sat empty.
Fast-forward six months. I was grabbing drinks with my best friend, Jake, when he mentioned his younger brother.
“Tyler’s moving here next month. Got a teaching gig. High school English.”
I snorted. “Tyler? The guy who used SparkNotes for every book in school?”
“Yeah. Irony, right? He’s broke, though. Doesn’t have a place lined up yet.”
The idea clicked instantly. “I could rent him the basement. Quiet, two bedrooms, utilities included. Six-fifty a month.”
Jake’s jaw dropped. “That’s robbery—in his favor. Do you realize apartments this size go for triple around here?”
I shrugged. “Consider it a family-and-friends deal. As long as he signs a lease and keeps it chill, why not?”
Tyler was thrilled. He moved in with two suitcases, a guitar, and a plant named Henry. For months, everything went smoothly. Rent was on time. He kept to himself. He even made me banana bread once. I thought I’d done a good deed.
Then came last Wednesday.
I was making dinner when I heard the stairs creak and Tyler stomp into my kitchen, arms crossed.
“Hey,” he snapped. “Can I start paying the landlord directly instead of handing you cash?”
I blinked. “What landlord?”
“The actual landlord,” he said pointedly.
I set my spatula down. “I am the landlord. I own this house.”
His face turned beet red.
“WHAT?! YOU OWN THIS PLACE?! You LIED to me!”
I stared at him. “Tyler… it’s literally written in your lease. Page one. My name. Owner and lessor. You signed it.”
He shook his head furiously, backing up. “You TRICKED me! You made me pay your mortgage like a fool!”
I nearly laughed. “Tyler, you’re paying six-fifty for a two-bedroom with utilities included. Market rate here is triple. What does it matter where the money goes?”
He slammed the counter so hard a fork rattled off. “It matters because you’re PROFITING off me! I’m not paying to make you rich!”
I folded my arms. “Rich? My mortgage is $775. Add $400 in taxes, plus insurance, plus maintenance, plus your hot water and electricity — I still pay over $1,500 out of pocket every month. You’re not funding my empire; you’re barely keeping me afloat. I gave you a discount because you’re my friend’s brother, not because I’m scamming you.”
He stormed back downstairs, door slamming hard enough to rattle the walls. And from that moment — radio silence.
No greetings. No banana bread. Just icy glares and passive-aggressive stomping.
A week later, I sent a text: “Hey, can we talk like adults?” No answer. Another text: “Look, I’m not your enemy. Can we clear the air?” Still nothing.
Finally, I messaged: “I’ll be entering the basement Monday at 6 p.m. for a walk-through. This is your 24-hour notice.”
No reply.
When I walked in Monday evening, my stomach dropped. Dishes piled in the sink, a trash bag reeking in the corner, stains in the carpet, dents in the drywall. Half his stuff was gone, the rest jammed into boxes. It looked like a war zone. I snapped a few photos and left a note: “Clean the unit or lose your deposit.”
The next morning, he barged into my kitchen, veins popping.
“YOU VIOLATED MY PRIVACY!” he screamed. “You didn’t tell me you were coming!”
“I gave you 24-hour notice,” I said evenly. “By text.”
“I BLOCKED your number,” he shot back. “So I didn’t see it. That’s YOUR fault!”
I nearly spat out my coffee. “Wait… you blocked me… and that’s my fault?”
“I KNOW MY RIGHTS!” he yelled. “This is ILLEGAL landlord behavior!”
I reminded him of the lease. He didn’t care. Instead, he shouted: “I’M MOVING OUT! I’d rather live in my car than give you another dime!”
I stayed calm. “That’s fine. If you’re out by month’s end, I won’t charge you September’s rent. You’ll even get a refund for unused days.”
He sputtered. “NO! I have 45 days! Tenants’ rights!”
I sighed. “Notice doesn’t erase rent owed. I’m cutting you a break.”
He stomped back down, kicking a box on the way. I called Jake. “Can you and Mia come over? I don’t feel safe anymore.”
For three days, the basement looked like a disaster zone. Trash bags, boxes, mattress against the wall. I overheard him on the phone outside:
“No, man, I’m serious. He exploited me. Made me pay his mortgage while pretending to be generous. I might file a complaint. Or post his name online. People need to know.”
I couldn’t help myself — I opened the window. “Don’t forget your plant, Tyler. It’s dying.”
He glared like I’d cursed his ancestors. “This isn’t over.”
Last night, he finally emerged with a duffel bag and Henry the half-dead plant.
“I’m out,” he muttered. “You win.”
“There was never a contest,” I replied.
“Enjoy your little empire,” he sneered.
I shook my head. “Empire? Tyler, I’m barely covering costs. You paid less than half the market rate. If anyone got scammed here, it was me.”
He adjusted his grip on Henry. “You’re lucky I’m not reporting you.”
“If being generous is a crime,” I said, “then I plead guilty.”
He left. For the first time in weeks, my house was quiet. And I vowed: never again. No more renting to friends of friends. Next tenant? Strict background checks. And definitely no one named Tyler.