My Landlord Made Me Host His Family for Thanksgiving Dinner, Then Billed Me for Damages They Caused

It started with an email. A few days before Thanksgiving, I was drinking my morning coffee when I saw Greg’s name pop up in my inbox. Greg is my landlord. He’s usually a reasonable guy, but this time, his request was beyond absurd. The subject line read:”Thanksgiving Proposal.”

Curious, I opened it and stared at the message in disbelief.

“Hey Sarah, My house is still under renovation. Would you mind hosting Thanksgiving dinner for my family at your place? It’ll just be one day, and they’re only twenty people. Thanks a ton!”

I blinked at the screen. Twenty people?? In my house?? This had to be a joke. “He can’t be serious,” I muttered to myself. My place was small and peaceful. I couldn’t imagine twenty strangers—and on a holiday, no less.

Without hesitation, I typed back: “Sorry, Greg. That won’t work for me. I can’t host that many people.”

I barely had time to close my laptop before my phone buzzed. It was Greg.

“Hey, Sarah!” he said, his voice dripping with that fake cheeriness he always used when he wanted something. “Got your email. Listen, it’s really just for one day. My family won’t be any trouble.”

“Greg, I said no,” I replied, keeping my voice firm. “That’s too many people. I’m not comfortable with it.”

There was a long pause. Then, Greg’s tone shifted to something more serious. “Well, the lease includes a clause about cooperating with landlord needs during renovations, ” he said. I realized it was vague enough for Greg to exploit it and call this reasonable.

My stomach dropped. “You’re saying I have to do this?”

“Technically, yeah,” he said with a chuckle. “It won’t be that bad. Just a few hours. They’ll be gone before you know it.”

I wanted to argue more, but he wasn’t budging. The lease had me trapped. I briefly considered consulting a lawyer, but the thought of legal fees and the time it would take made my stomach sink. With no better option, my voice was barely above a whisper when I finally said, “Fine. But if anything goes wrong, I’m holding you responsible.”

Greg’s voice perked up immediately. “You’re the best, Sarah! Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

I hung up, my heart pounding. A bad feeling gnawed at me. Something told me this was going to be a disaster, and I hated that I couldn’t stop it.

Thanksgiving arrived, and so did Greg’s family. They didn’t trickle in—they flooded in. First came the adults, balancing trays of food and clinking bottles.

Then came the kids—so many kids—who immediately turned my living room into a playground. And finally, the dog. A Labrador, whose muddy paws made a beeline for my freshly planted garden.

I caught Greg’s eye as he strolled in, smiling like everything was normal.

“Greg,” I hissed, “you didn’t mention a dog.”

He shrugged. “Oh, that’s Max. He’s harmless.”

Before I could respond, Max bolted after a squirrel, trampling my flower beds into oblivion.

My stomach twisted in knots. I watched helplessly as chaos unfolded. Kids spilled juice on my carpet, screaming and chasing each other. Adults slouched on my couch, plates in hand, as gravy dripped onto the fabric. The noise was deafening. I tried to keep a polite smile on my face, but inside, I was screaming.

As hours passed, the mess grew. My kitchen became a war zone of dirty dishes and discarded food. Someone—maybe one of the kids, maybe an adult—knocked over a vase. Shards of glass scattered across the floor. I swept it with gritted teeth.

Greg, of course, was oblivious. He laughed with his family, unaware of my growing frustration.

Eight hours. They stayed for eight hours. By the time the last guest finally left, my house looked like it had survived a hurricane. My garden was ruined, there were greasy handprints on the walls, and worst of all—my kitchen faucet had snapped clean off.

One of the kids had climbed onto the kitchen counter to reach a plate and accidentally yanked the faucet, breaking it beyond repair.

I sank onto the couch and stared at the mess. My hands shook. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. How did this happen?

I spent the next few days cleaning up the wreckage. It took hours to scrub the gravy stains out of my couch and salvage what was left of my garden. The faucet? Beyond repair. I tried to shake off the anger, but it simmered under my skin.

A few days after the disaster, I sent Greg a detailed message listing the damages — the ruined garden, the greasy handprints, and the broken faucet. I hoped he’d apologize or at least offer to cover the costs.

Instead, a week later, Greg’s follow-up email landed in my inbox.

The subject line: “Damages Invoice.”

My heart sank. I clicked it open, and there it was—a bill for $1,300.

His message was infuriatingly casual. “Hey Sarah, since you hosted, the damages fall on you. It’s in the lease. Please send payment by Friday. Thanks.”

I stared at the screen, disbelief turning into rage. My hands shook with fury.

“The audacity.”

I grabbed my phone and called Greg. He picked up on the second ring, still in that insufferable cheerful tone.

“Hey, Sarah!”

“Greg, are you serious?” I snapped. “You’re billing me for the damages your family caused?”

“Well,” he said, condescension dripping from his voice, “you were the host. It’s your responsibility.”

I clenched my jaw. “You forced me to host them. This isn’t fair.”

He sighed like I was the one being difficult. “Sorry, Sarah, it’s just business.”

Then he hung up.

I sat in stunned silence, the anger inside me bubbling over. I wasn’t going to let him win. Greg thought he could bully me because he was the landlord. But I knew something he didn’t—his ego was his weakness. And I was about to shatter it.

Greg loved to brag about his perfect five-star rating as a landlord. He was always on local landlord forums, posting about how he kept his properties “in pristine condition.” His image was his power, and that image was about to crack.

I gathered my evidence—photos of the broken faucet, the destroyed garden, the gravy-stained couch. Every piece of damage was documented and time-stamped.

I logged onto the landlord review sites Greg always boasted about. His ratings gleamed on each one. Not for long.

I typed up detailed reviews. No embellishments, no exaggerations—just the cold, hard truth.

I wrote: “Greg forced me to host his family’s Thanksgiving dinner because his place was under renovation. Twenty people invaded my home, left it trashed, and a week later, Greg billed me $1,300 for the damages his family caused. Future tenants, beware: if Greg decides your home is his, you’ll pay for it.”

I quoted his email, too: “You were the host, it’s your responsibility.”

Then I hit “Submit” on three major review sites.

It didn’t take long for the reviews to gain traction. Comments poured in. Other tenants shared their horror stories about Greg’s unreasonable demands. His once-pristine five-star rating plummeted. Four stars. Three stars. Two stars.

My phone buzzed. Greg.

I let it go to voicemail. His message was frantic.

“Sarah, please! Call me back. We need to talk.”

I smiled. Let him sweat.

By the third voicemail, his tone had shifted from panic to desperation.

I picked up the phone. “Greg, you billed me $1,300 for damages you caused. Do you think that’s fair?”

His voice cracked. “I get it. Maybe I overreacted. Just… take down the reviews.”

“Send me an email canceling the bill,” I said calmly. “Then we’ll talk.”

An hour later, the email came through: “The $1,300 charge has been canceled.”

I deleted the reviews, satisfied. Greg’s reputation was bruised, but his lesson was learned.

A few days later, he sent me a text: “I’m really sorry for everything. I didn’t realize how much I was asking of you.” It was short, but the remorse was clear. The usual arrogance in his tone was gone. He felt the sting of his actions and seemed genuinely ashamed. I left the message unanswered, letting him sit with his guilt a little longer.

Two days later, there was a knock at my door. Greg stood there, his shoulders slumped and his eyes avoiding mine. “Sarah, I messed up,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have forced you to host my family, and billing you was wrong. I want to make it right.” He handed me an envelope with a check for $1,500 — more than enough to cover the damages.

“I’m sorry,” he added. “This won’t happen again.” I could see the embarrassment in his eyes, the weight of knowing he’d pushed too far. He turned to leave, pausing only to say, “If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”

I watched him walk away, a sense of peace settling over me. My home was mine again, and Greg had finally learned that respect is a two-way street. He realized that revenge is best served cold — just like leftover Thanksgiving dinner.

If you enjoyed this story, check out this one: Nancy’s landlord asked her and her daughters to vacate the home they were renting for a week. But when she returned to retrieve one of her kids’ toys, she discovered the shocking truth behind the request.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.