At 52, I thought I’d seen every trick in the book when it came to husband-stealing drama queens. Boy, was I wrong. My new neighbor, a freshly divorced, young yoga Barbie, tried turning my husband into her next accessory. So I taught her why flirting with a married man is always a bad idea.
Three months ago, a moving truck pulled up next door, and out stepped trouble in stilettos. Her name was Amber. She was 25, blonde, and fresh off a divorce that left her with a house she didn’t pay for and an attitude that screamed, “your husband’s next.”
The whole street knew her story: she’d married 73-year-old lonely Mr. Patterson, then walked away with half his assets when he couldn’t keep up with her “needs.”
I watched her through my kitchen window, directing movers in shorts that belonged in a gym, not on a front lawn at eight in the morning.
“Andy, come look at our new neighbor!” I called my husband.
He wandered over, coffee mug in hand, and nearly choked. “Well, she’s… young.”
Andy chuckled and kissed my cheek. “Debbie, not everyone’s out to get us. Maybe she just wants to fit in.”
“Oh, she wants to fit in alright… right between you and our marriage vows.”
“Deb..?!”
“Just kidding!”
Being the good neighbor I was raised to be, I baked blueberry muffins and marched over to Amber’s house the next morning. She answered the door in a silk robe that barely covered what God gave her.
“Oh my gosh, how sweet!” She clutched the muffin basket like it was made of gold. “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. “Such a gentleman. You’re so lucky to have a man who takes care of things.”
The way she said “things” made my skin crawl.
“Yes, he takes very good care of what’s HIS!” I replied, emphasizing the last word.
She giggled like I’d told the world’s funniest joke. “Well, if you ever need anything… anything at all… I’m right here!”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Within a week, Amber’s “innocent” behavior escalated faster than a teenager’s texting bill. Every morning, she’d appear at her fence just as Andy left for work, waving like she was flagging down a rescue helicopter.
“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 so weak!”
I watched this circus from behind my curtains, steam practically shooting from my ears.
