I’ve been renting out my basement for nearly a decade now. The extra money helps, but honestly, it keeps the loneliness away, too. My new tenant seemed perfect.
He was polite, quiet, and always early with rent.
Then, his clothes started appearing in my bedroom, and I began questioning my own sanity.
My name’s Eliza, and I’m 70 years old.
I’ve learned to be careful about who I let into my home. My little two-story house isn’t much, but it’s mine.
The basement apartment (just a kitchenette, bathroom, and what my late husband called “the cave”) brings in enough to cover property taxes and those bills that never stop coming.
But there’s another reason I rent it out. The evenings stretch long when you’re alone, and the TV becomes just noise instead of comfort.
My new tenant, Peter, seemed like a gift when he showed up three months ago.
Soft-spoken, respectful, always dressed in pressed clothes with his hair neat and short.
He paid a week early every month with a handwritten note tucked in the envelope. “Thank you, Ma’am.
…The story doesn’t end here, it continues on the next page 👇
