When my boyfriend Jason moved in, everything seemed perfect—until he found out I owned the house. I was eighteen when my dad gave me the keys to our old family house. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything to me. I rented out the downstairs to Maggie, a sweet woman, for a fair price just to cover upkeep.

Three months ago, Jason moved in. We split groceries and chores, but never talked about the house. One evening, while watching the news about rising rent prices, Jason vented about greedy landlords. I stayed quiet, not wanting to mention I was technically one of them.

A few days later, Maggie’s freezer broke, and I agreed to cover the cost of a new one. When Jason found out, he was shocked. “You own this place?” he asked, his tone shifting. I explained it casually, but he was upset, accusing me of being a landlord who takes advantage of people.

The next few days were tense. Jason couldn’t let it go. He said I should stop charging rent or give him half of what I made from Maggie. I refused, and the argument escalated. Jason stormed out, slamming the door behind him. I texted my dad, who arrived immediately, offering silent support.

The next morning, Maggie came over with muffins. “I just wanted to bring these. You’re one of the good ones,” she said, reminding me that I wasn’t the problem Jason thought I was. After everything, the house felt a little more like home again.