When Milly ditched our apartment to live with her boyfriend, she didn’t even have the decency to pay her half of the rent. I texted, I called, I waited—but she ghosted me like I didn’t exist. Meanwhile, her clutter sat in every corner of our home while I covered her bills. By July, I’d had enough.
I boxed up her junk with help from friends and told the landlord she was gone. He changed the locks without hesitation—she was off the lease, after all. I kept what looked sentimental, donated the rest, and reclaimed my space. Then Milly came back screaming about her “missing” stuff.
She stood at my door in full meltdown mode, sobbing about a wedding dress I apparently gave away. But how was I supposed to know an unmarked, dusty box under her bed held anything important? She ghosted me for two months and expected a welcome mat. I stood my ground—calm, firm, done.
She threatened cops, lawsuits, tears—the works. I reminded her: I warned her, documented everything, and even spoke to her mom. She didn’t just lose her things—she lost her place here by disappearing without a word. I didn’t throw her out. She threw herself out. I just made it official.