At 52, I thought I had seen every trick when it came to husband-stealing drama queens. I’ve been around long enough to know how some women operate, and I thought nothing could surprise me anymore. Boy, was I wrong.
My new neighbor, a freshly divorced yoga Barbie, decided to set her sights on my husband. And let me tell you, I taught her exactly why flirting with a married man is always a bad idea.
It all started three months ago. A moving truck rolled up next door, and out stepped trouble in stilettos. Her name was Amber. She was 25, blonde, legs for days, and had just walked out of a divorce with more than she deserved.
Everyone on the street already knew her story. She’d married old Mr. Patterson — a lonely 73-year-old with deep pockets. When he couldn’t keep up with her “needs,” she took half of everything and ran.
And now, she was living next to me.
From my kitchen window, I saw her directing movers at eight in the morning, wearing shorts that barely qualified as clothing.
“Andy, come look at our new neighbor!” I called to my husband.
He wandered over with his coffee, glanced outside, and nearly choked. “Well, she’s… young.”
“She’s trouble,” I said flatly, arms crossed. “Mark my words.”
Andy kissed my cheek and laughed. “Debbie, not everyone’s out to get us. Maybe she just wants to fit in.”
“Oh, she wants to fit in alright,” I muttered. “Right between you and our marriage vows.”
“Deb..?!” He gave me a look, and I laughed it off. “Just kidding!”
But I wasn’t really kidding.
The next morning, being the “good neighbor” I was raised to be, I baked blueberry muffins and carried them over. Amber opened the door in a silk robe that looked like it had lost the battle with modesty.
“Oh my gosh, how sweet!” she said, clutching the basket like it was treasure. “You must be Debbie! Andy told me all about you.”
My smile tightened. “Oh, did he? When exactly did you two have time to chat?”
“Yesterday evening, when I was getting my mail. He was watering your roses.” She leaned against the doorframe, eyes sparkling. “Such a gentleman. You’re so lucky to have a man who takes care of things.”
The way she said “things” made my stomach turn.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “He takes very good care of what’s HIS.”
She giggled like I’d just told her the funniest joke in the world. “Well, if you ever need anything… anything at all… I’m right here!”
I gave her a tight smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Within a week, her little games started. Every morning, she popped up at her fence just as Andy left for work.
“Morning, Andy! Love that shirt on you!”
“Your lawn looks amazing! You must work out!”
“Could you help me with this heavy box sometime? I’m just sooo weak!”
I watched it all from behind my curtains, steam practically shooting out of my ears.
Finally, on Thursday morning, I’d had enough. I marched outside right in the middle of her routine.
“Morning, Amber! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
She stiffened, clearly annoyed I’d interrupted her act. “Oh, hi Debbie. Yes, it’s gorgeous.”
“Andy, honey,” I said loudly, looping my arm through his, “don’t forget we have dinner with my mother tonight.”
Amber pouted. “Actually, I was hoping Andy might help me move my couch this weekend. It’s sooo heavy, and I don’t know any other strong men around here.”
I smiled sweetly. “I’m sure the moving company has a number you can call. They specialize in heavy lifting.”
Andy cleared his throat, kissed my forehead, and practically sprinted to his car.
Amber’s smile faltered. “You’re so protective of him.”
“Thirty years of marriage will do that to a woman,” I said smoothly.
But that wasn’t enough to stop her.
The following week, she started jogging past our house every evening — conveniently when Andy was outside. Her outfits left nothing to the imagination, and her “water breaks” were straight out of a cheap soap opera.
“This heat is killing me!” she panted one night, fanning herself. “Andy, you wouldn’t happen to have a cold bottle of water, would you?”
Andy, bless his clueless heart, handed her his own. “Here, take mine.”
She pressed it to her chest like he’d just handed her an engagement ring. “You’re such a lifesaver. Literally!”
That’s when I stepped onto the porch with a garden hose. “Amber, honey, if you’re that hot, I’d be happy to cool you down!”
She jumped back like I’d waved a snake in her face. “Oh, that’s okay! I should get back to my run.”
But she wasn’t done.
Two weeks later, she pulled her boldest stunt. Friday night, Andy and I were settling in to watch a movie when someone pounded on the door like the house was on fire.
It was Amber, in a bathrobe, hair a mess, panic written all over her face.
“Andy! Thank God you’re home! I think a pipe burst in my bathroom! Water’s everywhere! Please, could you be a sweetheart and help me?”
Andy’s protective instincts kicked in immediately. “Of course, let me grab my toolbox.”
“I’ll come too,” I said, grabbing my jacket.
But Amber clutched Andy’s arm, ignoring me completely. “Oh my God, it’s flooding! Hurry, Andy… hurry!”
Andy was halfway across the lawn before I could blink. I followed close behind.
Inside Amber’s house, she led him to the “scene.” But instead of a flood, there were candles, rose petals, soft jazz — and Amber herself, standing in lingerie and heels.
Andy froze. “AMBER?? What the hell is this?”
She smiled like it was a cute surprise. “Surprise!”
Andy’s eyes widened. “Are you out of your mind? I’m a married man.”
She reached for his arm. “Andy, wait—”
“Don’t!” He jerked away like she’d burned him. “This is insane.”
That was all I needed to see. I slipped out quietly, tears stinging my eyes — half from relief, half from pride. My Andy had passed her little test.
But Amber wasn’t off the hook. Not by a long shot.
The next morning, I told Andy, “Now you understand what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He nodded, hands still trembling. “She planned this the whole time,” he muttered.
I patted his arm. “Welcome to my world, honey.”
And that’s when I started my plan.
Using Amber’s number, which I got from our sweet elderly neighbor Lisa, I texted her from Andy’s spare phone.
Andy: “Hey beautiful. My wife’s out with her book club tonight. Wanna come over around eight? Bring that smile I can’t stop thinking about. 😉”
She replied in two minutes.
Amber: “Ooooh… naughty 😘 I thought you’d never ask. Should I wear that little thing you liked?”
Andy: “Anything you wish.”
Amber: “Alrightyyyy!! 😘😘😘”
Perfect.
That night, while Andy was still at the office, my living room filled with a small army of neighborhood women. Susan the retired cop, Margaret from the PTA, Linda the organizer, and Carol, who raised five boys. They came armed with coffee, snacks, and fire in their eyes.
At 8:00 sharp, Amber strutted up in her shimmery dress, lipstick blazing. She didn’t knock — just let herself in.
I flipped the lights on. “Amber! What a lovely surprise!”
She froze. “Deb—Debbie? What are you..? Oh my God..!”
The room full of women stared her down. She stammered, “I think I made a mistake.”
“Oh honey,” Susan said slowly, “you made several mistakes.”
Margaret crossed her arms. “We’ve all seen your little show.”
“The jogging,” Linda said.
“The fake emergencies,” Carol added.
“The lingerie bathroom fiasco,” I finished.
Amber tried to laugh it off, but I held up Andy’s phone with the texts glowing on the screen. “Care to explain this?”
Her face crumbled.
For the next twenty minutes, those women gave her the lecture of her life.
“You’re not original,” Linda snapped.
“You’re pathetic,” Carol said bluntly.
“You think the world owes you something,” I told her. “Well, it doesn’t.”
When Susan finally opened the door, Amber bolted out, humiliated.
Two days later, a For Sale sign appeared on her lawn. Three weeks later, she was gone — no goodbye, no cookies, nothing.
Andy looked out the window. “Huh. Wonder why she left so suddenly?”
I sipped my coffee. “Maybe this just wasn’t her happy place.”
And that was that.
Here’s the truth: women like me, women who’ve been married for decades, don’t survive this long by being naïve. We fight for what’s ours, and we win. And any 25-year-old who thinks she can waltz in and steal our happiness… well, let’s just say Amber won’t be forgetting Oakville anytime soon.