I had been living in that flat for three years. It wasn’t fancy, but it was home—close enough to work, with just enough light through the kitchen window to make mornings feel warm.

Then one afternoon, the landlady called and told me they were putting it up for sale.

I had a month to move out.

I spent that last week scrubbing the place from top to bottom. Baseboards, windows, even the oven that I swore had seen better days.

I wanted my deposit back, sure, but it was more than that—it felt like the right way to say goodbye.

When I handed the keys over, I felt a little sad but also relieved. Everything was spotless.

The very next day, my phone rang. It was my landlady.

My heart sank. I was sure they’d found something broken—a scratch on the floorboards, a crack I hadn’t noticed.

My stomach twisted as I picked up.But to my surprise, her tone was cheerful.

She started thanking me, over and over, for how clean the place was.

She said she hadn’t seen a tenant leave it in such good condition in years.

I let out a nervous laugh, finally starting to relax.

And then, after a pause, she said something that made my heart skip.

“Tell me,” she asked, “how come you’re moving out if you kept it like this?

You’re the kind of tenant every landlord wishes they could keep.”I didn’t know what to say.

Part of me wanted to tell her the truth—that I would’ve stayed if I could.

That this little flat had been more than just walls and rent to me.

Instead, I just smiled into the phone and said, “Sometimes, it’s not our choice.”