A friend of mine worked on a cruise ship for six months. She was still paying the rent for her apartment. When she came back, she couldn’t get her door open, called the landlord, and he told her he had thrown out all of her stuff, because after one month of her cruise she didn’t pay the rent.

Turns out her parents had been paying it the whole time.

Her name is Noora. We met in college—she was the kind of person who’d give you her umbrella in a thunderstorm and just laugh about getting soaked. Always floating through chaos with that calm, grounded energy that made people trust her. So when she landed this job working as an activities coordinator on a cruise ship, we were all thrilled for her.

She had sublet her apartment once before during a semester abroad, but this time she decided to keep it and pay rent—her parents offered to cover it as a gift, since the job paid modestly but offered room and board. She set up direct deposits, gave her landlord, Mr. Fazio, a heads-up, and even left a note for him in case anything went wrong.

I remember walking her to the airport shuttle, and she was so excited she forgot her neck pillow. Classic Noora.

She called every so often, usually when they were docked in ports with decent Wi-Fi. Around the second month, she texted me a little stressed—her landlord hadn’t responded to an email about her leaky bathroom sink. She brushed it off, saying he was probably just being lazy.

I didn’t think much of it either. Fazio was known for being flaky, but never outright cruel.

Five and a half months in, she messaged me, saying, “Can’t wait to be back! Please tell me the city still smells like hot garbage in July.”

The week she landed, I was out of town. She messaged me the day she got back—panicked.

“Something’s wrong. My key doesn’t work. And my name’s not on the buzzer anymore.”

She called Fazio. He told her flatly that he’d assumed she had “abandoned the unit” and he’d already rented it out to someone else. Not just that—he said he’d disposed of all her belongings. Every dish, every piece of furniture, even the box of handwritten letters from her late grandmother.

She was crying so hard when she called me I had to keep asking her to repeat things.

The thing that really didn’t make sense—her parents had been paying the rent the whole time. They showed her screenshots. Five full months of on-time payments. Labeled with her name, even her unit number in the memo line.

Noora drove to her parents’ place that night, an hour out of the city. They printed everything, payment by payment. The deposits matched perfectly with the rent dates.

So she texted Fazio again, and this time, she was firm. “I have payment proof. You made a mistake.”

He didn’t reply. Two days later, a lawyer friend of her dad’s helped her draft a letter.

That’s when it got weird.

She got a call—not from Fazio, but from a woman named Maritza. Turns out, she was the new tenant in the unit. Maritza found Noora’s number in an old magazine subscription still coming to the apartment.

Maritza said, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I still get letters addressed to you. I asked Fazio, and he said you skipped town and left a bunch of junk behind.”

Noora asked her if anything had been left in the unit when she moved in.

Maritza hesitated. “Well… there was a bed and a couch. And a mirror. But he said they belonged to the previous tenant before you.”

That mirror was custom-made. Noora had painted cherry blossoms on the edges herself during lockdown. It was unmistakable.

That’s when it clicked.

Fazio hadn’t thrown her things out. He’d sold what he could, and lied about the rest.

Noora filed a police report. The officer she talked to said what Fazio did was legally murky but not unheard of—if a landlord “reasonably believes” a unit’s been abandoned, they can legally reclaim it after notice. But he hadn’t sent her anything. No emails. No calls. Not even a mailed notice.

Her parents’ payments clearly proved she hadn’t abandoned anything.

Still, the officer shrugged. “You’ll probably have to sue him in civil court.”

Noora didn’t have money for a long legal battle. But her dad’s friend, the lawyer, offered to help pro bono. He said, “This guy probably counted on you just moving on. Let’s not give him that satisfaction.”

They started building a case. Maritza even agreed to provide a statement—she still had some of Noora’s mail, and a few photos she took when she first moved in. The bedframe was visible in one, with Noora’s initials carved into the wood.

Meanwhile, Noora posted about it in a private Facebook group for tenants in her neighborhood. The post exploded.

Dozens of people came forward with similar stories. Some worse.

One guy, Ahmad, said Fazio had kept his security deposit claiming he left “stains on the carpet”—he had photo proof the carpets had been replaced two years earlier.

Another woman, Carmella, said she left her apartment for two weeks after her mother died, and returned to find the locks changed and her dog’s ashes missing. Fazio told her he thought she “moved out suddenly” and denied ever seeing the urn.

The comments were like a horror show. Each one added another layer.

That’s when someone, a woman named Imari, dropped a bomb: “Fazio’s not even the actual owner. He’s the property manager. The real landlord lives out of state. I met her once when I tried to buy the building.”

That was huge.

Noora tracked down the owner, an older woman named Sarita Mahajan who lived in Phoenix. Noora called her, not expecting much.

But Sarita picked up. And she was furious.

She said she hadn’t been to New York in two years and had no idea about any of this. She was under the impression that Fazio was keeping the units full and handling tenant issues. When Noora told her everything, Sarita got quiet for a minute, then said, “Send me everything you’ve got.”

Emails. Payment receipts. Photos. Testimonies.

Three days later, Fazio got fired.

Sarita sent a letter to every tenant in the building, apologizing for “years of mismanagement,” and offered in-person office hours for concerns. She said she was hiring a licensed management company instead of “a single unsupervised individual.”

It felt surreal. But it wasn’t over.

Fazio hadn’t just tossed Noora’s belongings. He’d profited off them—selling furniture, possibly even personal items.

Noora’s lawyer filed a small claims suit, listing every item with estimated value, sentimental or not. They requested damages for emotional distress, too.

And then karma did its thing.

About a month before the court date, Fazio reached out. Not to apologize. But to settle.

He offered her $3,000.

Noora said, “My grandmother’s letters alone were worth more than that to me.”

They didn’t settle. They went to court.

Fazio looked deflated in person. No slick comebacks. Just a guy in a wrinkled blazer, realizing too late that he had picked the wrong target.

The judge didn’t even need long. Ruled in Noora’s favor. Awarded her $9,400 in damages. Said Fazio’s actions were “negligent at best, malicious at worst.”

He tried to delay the payment. But Sarita made it clear—if he didn’t comply, she would sue him next for breach of contract.

Noora finally got the check six weeks later.

She used part of it to start a little side project—an online guide for young renters navigating tricky landlords. She included resources, tenant rights by state, templates for demand letters. She called it “Tenant Truths.” It blew up on Instagram.

But the most surprising part?

Maritza—the new tenant in her old unit—reached out again months later.

She said, “Hey. I found a tiny envelope taped behind the fuse box. It had your name on it.”

Inside were three old photos. Noora and her college friends at Coney Island. A snapshot of her dad as a young man, holding her on his shoulders. And one letter—folded, faded, but still intact. From her grandmother.

Noora cried when she read it. Not because she was sad. But because some things, no matter how messy life gets, still find their way home.

If there’s one thing she learned, it’s this: Document everything. Don’t let silence become consent. And never assume someone with keys has the right to open any door they want.

Please share this if you know someone dealing with a shady landlord—it might just help them push back. 💬❤️