I had lived in that flat for three years. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was home—close to work, with just enough sunlight through the kitchen window to make mornings feel warm. Then one afternoon, my landlady called to say they were putting it up for sale.
I had one month to move out.
During my final week there, I cleaned everything from top to bottom—baseboards, windows, even the oven that had clearly seen better days. Of course I wanted my deposit back, but it was more than that. It felt like the right way to say goodbye.
When I handed over the keys, I felt both sad and relieved. Everything was spotless.
The very next day, my phone rang. My heart sank—I was sure they’d found something wrong.
But to my surprise, her tone was cheerful. She kept thanking me for how clean the place was and said she hadn’t seen a tenant leave it in such good condition in years.
I laughed nervously, finally starting to relax.
Then she paused and asked, “If you took such good care of it, why are you moving out? You’re the kind of tenant every landlord wishes they could keep.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Part of me wanted to admit I would’ve stayed if I could.
Instead, I simply replied, “Sometimes, it’s not our choice.”
