My sister walked into the apartment I managed, tossing a rent increase letter onto my kitchen table, tripling the price from $2,350 to $7,100. My parents called it fair, but they didn’t know that beneath my fingernails was ink from the signature on documents my grandmother had left me. The entire building was mine, and I’d been preparing for this moment in silence for three years. My name is Claire Maddox, and I’ve spent the last six years managing Maple Glenn Apartments, a modest but well-maintained building in the heart of Portland. At 34, I wasn’t exactly where I thought I’d be in life, but I’d found purpose in keeping the building running smoothly, making sure our elderly residents had working heaters in winter, and that the young families could raise their kids in a safe, clean environment.
The morning Sabrina showed up changed everything. I was in my ground-floor office reviewing maintenance requests when I heard the distinctive click of her designer heels on the lobby’s worn marble. My older sister had that effect. Her presence announced itself before she even entered a room. Through my office window, I watched her stride past Mrs. Rodriguez and her granddaughter without acknowledgement, her tailored suit as sharp as her ambition.
“Clare,” she said, not bothering to knock as she entered my office. “We need to talk.”
Sabrina had always been the golden child: Yale Law, partnership at 32, a brownstone in the nice part of town. Me: community college, a property management certificate, and a one-bedroom apartment in the building I managed. But I’d never minded the comparison until today. She placed a manila envelope on my desk with the kind of practiced precision she probably used in courtrooms.
“The family had a meeting last weekend about Maple Glenn.”
“What meeting?” I set down my coffee mug, noting how she said “the family” as if I wasn’t part of it. “I wasn’t invited to any meeting.”
“It was an investor’s discussion.” She adjusted her pearl necklace, the one Grandma Edith had given her for law school graduation. “Mom, Dad, myself, and Uncle Richard—we’ve been reviewing the building’s financials.”
My stomach tightened. “The building’s financials are fine. We’re at 95% occupancy. Maintenance is up to date.”
“The market’s hot, Clare.” She cut me off with a wave of her manicured hand. “Properties in this neighborhood are selling for three times what they were worth five years ago. We’re hemorrhaging opportunity cost.”
I stared at her. Hemorrhaging opportunity cost. “These are people’s homes, Sabrina.”
“It’s a business asset,” she said, tapping the envelope, “which brings me to why I’m here. Effective next month, we’re implementing new rental rates to align with market standards.”
My hands were steady as I opened the envelope, but my mind was racing. The letter inside was printed on Sabrina’s law firm letterhead. Of course it was. My eyes scanned down to the numbers, and I had to read them twice.
$7,100.
My voice came out strangled. “My rent is going from $2,350 to $7,100.”
“Your below-market rate was a courtesy extended by Grandma Edith.” Sabrina’s tone was clinical, detached. “But we can’t run a business on sentiment. Every unit paying below market rate is money left on the table.”
“This is triple what I’m paying now.”
“Actually, it’s 3.02 times your current rate.” She smiled. Actually smiled. “But don’t worry. As family, we’re giving you 60 days instead of the standard 30. Dad insisted.”
I thought of Ruth Saunders in 3B, who’d lived here for 15 years. The Nwen family in 2A with their new baby. Old Mr. Petrov who fed the stray cats behind the building.
“What about everyone else?” I asked. “Are you raising their rents too?”
“Market rate adjustments across the board.” She pulled out her phone, already moving on to her next task. “Those who can afford to stay will stay. Those who can’t—” She shrugged. “We’ll find housing within their means.”
“You mean they’ll be homeless.”
“They’ll find housing within their means.” She looked up from her screen, and for a moment I saw something flicker in her eyes—annoyance, disdain. “This is the real world, Clare. Grandma coddled you, letting you play property manager, keeping rents artificially low. But she’s been gone three years now, and it’s time to maximize the asset’s potential.”
“Grandma cared about people.”
“Grandma was from a different era.” Sabrina stood, smoothing her skirt. “The vote was unanimous, Clare. Mom and Dad agree. It’s what’s best for the family’s financial future.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Mom and Dad voted for this.
“They understand business.” She moved toward the door, then paused. “Oh, and we’ll need you to distribute the notices to all residents by end of week. As property manager, that’s still your job for now.”
The threat in those last two words wasn’t subtle.
“Sabrina, please—can we talk about this? Maybe a smaller increase?”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” She turned back, and the smile on her face was the same one she’d worn when she’d beaten me at Monopoly as kids, when she’d gotten into Yale while I was waitressing, when she’d bought her brownstone while I was still renting. “It’s just business, Clare. Don’t take it personally.”
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone with the letter that would destroy everything I’d worked to maintain.
I sank into my chair, staring at the numbers that seemed to grow larger the longer I looked at them. $7,100—more than most of my residents made in a month. I thought about calling my parents, but what was the point? They’d chosen their side. Voted to support Sabrina’s plan without even telling me there was a meeting. The family had decided, and I wasn’t really family. I was just the little sister who managed the building, whose below-market rent was a courtesy they could no longer afford to extend.
My phone buzzed. A text from Sabrina.
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