“It’s probably just condensation,” he said, shrugging it off.
His indifferent tone left a bitter taste in my mouth, and my follow-ups were met with silence or vague promises.
Days passed, and the fridge light flickered oddly but stayed on.
Warm spots appeared inside, and I threw out another batch of wilted veggies.
Each kitchen visit required a towel, a ritual of dabbing and mopping that became my new normal.
The weekend approached, and with it, the landlord’s promise of a technician visit, though doubt nagged at me.
Money was tight, and the looming uncertainty of a possible repair bill added to my unease.
The slow drip, the creeping warmth, and the landlord’s silence made me feel stuck.
Stuck with a problem that would only get worse unless I took action I wasn’t prepared for.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
