Dear previous owners of the third house on the right,
Screw you.
The tiles are uneven and the cabinets are crooked and now I can't go home because of a problem you let get out of hand.

I can't go home because someone found mold under a tiny little tile in the bathroom,
And because my mom is sick they assumed it was due to what was found in that room,
And now I can't go home.

That tiny bit of mold started as a room-wide quarantine,
And turned into "you might need to get rid of everything you own,"
That means the shelf full of candles and the 287 postcards and every memory I've ever known,
And now I can't go home.

That tiny bit of mold cost us upwards of 15 grand.
It cost me more than a handful of tears and several years of rebuilding my collections.
I'm living with someone else because you yourself couldn't be bothered to fix a mistake that took seconds to make but weeks to mend.

Dear previous owners of the third house on the right,
Screw you.
Because now I can't go home.