At 52, I thought I had seen every type of drama queen who thought she could swoop in and steal someone’s husband. But let me tell you, I was wrong. My new neighbor — young, freshly divorced, and plastic as a Barbie doll — tried to make my husband her next prize.
She had no idea who she was dealing with. And let’s just say, she learned very quickly why flirting with a married man is always a terrible idea.
It all started three months ago when a moving truck pulled up next door. Out stepped trouble — dressed in stilettos. Her name was Amber. Twenty-five, blonde, fresh off a divorce, and now holding onto a house she hadn’t even paid for. But worse than her stilettos was the attitude written all over her face. It screamed, “your husband’s next.”
Everyone on the street already knew her story. She had married Mr. Patterson, a lonely old man of 73, and the second she realized he couldn’t keep up with her “needs,” she walked away with half his assets. Now she had youth, looks, money, and a brand-new hunting ground.
I stood at my kitchen window that morning, watching her boss the movers around while wearing shorts so tiny they looked like they had been stolen from a teenager. It was 8 a.m. on a suburban street, not a music video.
“Andy, come look at our new neighbor!” I called to my husband.
He shuffled over, still in his robe, coffee mug in hand. The second he saw her, he nearly choked on his sip. “Well, she’s… young.”
“She’s trouble,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “Mark my words.”
Andy just 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,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Right between you and our marriage vows.”
“Deb..?!?” Andy blinked.
“Just kidding!” I grinned, but deep down, I meant every word.
Still, I was raised to be a good neighbor, so the very next morning, I baked a basket of blueberry muffins and marched over. Amber opened the door wearing a silk robe so short, I wondered why she even bothered.
“Oh my gosh, how sweet!” she squealed, clutching the basket like it was treasure. “You must be Debbie! Andy told me all about you.”
My smile tightened instantly. Andy told her about me? “Oh, did he? And when exactly did you two have time to chat?”
“Yesterday evening,” she said breezily, leaning on the doorframe. “He was watering your roses while I was checking my mail. 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, he takes very good care of what’s HIS,” I shot back, putting heavy emphasis on the last word.
She giggled like I’d told the funniest joke in the world. “Well, if you ever need anything… anything at all… I’m right here!”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said flatly.
But I didn’t need to keep it in mind — because I already knew exactly where this was heading.
Within a week, her “innocent” games had escalated faster than a kid’s cellphone bill. Every single morning, like clockwork, she was at her fence right when Andy left for work.
“Morning, Andy! Love that shirt on you!”
“Wow, your lawn looks amazing! You must work out!”
“Could you maybe help me with this heavy box sometime? I’m just sooo weak!”
I watched from behind the curtains, steam practically puffing from my ears like a cartoon bull.
By Thursday, I snapped. I stormed outside just as she began her daily routine.
“Morning, Amber!” I called cheerfully. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
She straightened, her fake smile twitching. “Oh, hi Debbie. Yes, it’s gorgeous.”
“Andy, honey,” I said loudly, slipping my arm through his, “don’t forget we have dinner with my mother tonight.”
Amber’s eyes flashed. “Actually, I was hoping Andy might help me move my couch this weekend,” she cooed. “It’s sooo heavy, and I don’t know any other strong men around here.”
I gave her a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m sure the moving company has a number you can call. They specialize in heavy lifting.”
Andy cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I, uh, better get to work. See you later, honey.” He kissed my forehead and practically bolted to his car.
Amber’s smile faltered as she watched him drive away. “You’re so protective of him.”
“Thirty years of marriage will do that to a woman,” I shot back.
But of course, she wasn’t done. Oh no.
The following week, she started jogging past our house every evening. And wouldn’t you know it, her runs just happened to “end” right when Andy was outside trimming hedges or watering the garden. Her outfits barely qualified as clothing, and her “water breaks” looked like rehearsed scenes from a bad soap opera.
“This heat is just killing me!” she panted one night, leaning over like she was on stage. “Andy, you wouldn’t happen to have a cold bottle of water, would you?”
Bless Andy’s clueless heart, he handed her his own bottle. “Here, take mine.”
She pressed it to her chest like it was a love letter. “You’re such a lifesaver. Literally!”
I stepped onto the porch, garden hose in hand. “Amber, honey, if you’re that hot, I’d be happy to cool you down!”
She jumped back like I’d aimed a snake at her. “Oh, that’s okay! I should get back to my run!”
But two weeks later, she decided to go all in.
It was Friday night. Andy and I were about to start a movie when someone pounded on the door like the police. Through the peephole, I saw Amber in a bathrobe, hair messy, looking panicked.
“Andy! Thank God you’re home!” she gasped. “I think a pipe burst in my bathroom! There’s water everywhere! I don’t know what to do! 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 firmly, grabbing my jacket.
But before I could finish, Amber wailed, “Oh my God! My bathroom is flooding! Hurry, Andy!”
And just like that, he was running across the lawn, toolbox in hand.
I followed silently, like a hunter tracking prey.
When she opened the door, her robe slipped off one shoulder. Andy stepped inside, toolbox still ready. I slipped in behind them quietly.
Amber led him down the hallway. “It’s back here in the master bathroom,” she purred.
And then — boom.
The “flooded bathroom” turned out to be candlelight, rose petals, and soft jazz. Amber stood in the doorway wearing lace lingerie, heels, and desperation.
Andy froze. “AMBER?? What the hell is this?”
She smiled, whispering, “Surprise!”
Andy stepped back, horrified. “Are you out of your mind? I’m a married man!”
She reached for him. “Andy, wait—”
“Don’t!” He pulled away. “This is insane.”
I didn’t say a word. I just turned and walked out, holding back tears of both relief and pride. My Andy, bless his oblivious heart, had passed the test. He might be clueless, but he was loyal.
And Amber? She had just written her last act.
Back in the kitchen, Andy’s hands were still shaking as he set down the toolbox. “Debbie,” he whispered, “I swear, I had no idea she would do that.”
“I know,” I told him softly, hugging him. “But now you see what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
He nodded, trembling. “She planned this all along.”
“Welcome to my world, honey.”
But I wasn’t done. Oh no. Amber needed a lesson she’d never forget.
The next week, I put my plan into action. I borrowed Andy’s spare phone and sent Amber a little text she thought was from him.
Andy: “Hey beautiful. My wife’s out tonight. Wanna come over at eight? Bring that smile I can’t stop thinking about.😉”
Her reply came fast.
Amber: “Ooooh… naughty 😘 I thought you’d never ask. Should I wear that little thing you liked? 😉”
Andy: “Anything you wish!”
Amber: “Alrightyyy!! 😘”
Perfect.
That night, while Andy worked late at the office, my living room was packed with the strongest women in the neighborhood. Susan, the retired cop. Margaret from the PTA. Linda, the queen of organizing. And Carol, who’d raised five boys by herself.
“Ladies,” I said, grinning, “tonight we’re going to watch stupidity in action.”
At eight o’clock sharp, Amber strutted up in heels and a shimmery dress. Without knocking, she swung the door open like she owned the place. But instead of Andy, she found fifteen women staring at her in silence.
“Debbie? Oh my God—”
She froze, lipstick trembling.
Susan stood. “Oh, honey. You’ve made a big mistake.”
Margaret crossed her arms. “We’ve been watching your little performance.”
“The jogging,” Linda added.
“The fake emergencies,” Carol chimed in.
“The lingerie ambush,” I finished.
Amber’s face drained of color. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” I said sweetly, holding up the phone. “Because these texts suggest otherwise.”
She tried to bolt, but Susan was already blocking the door.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked calmly. “We were just getting started.”
And then the lecture began. Fifteen women, decades of wisdom, tearing apart her act with brutal honesty.
“You targeted a married man the second you got here,” Margaret scolded.
“You’re not clever,” Linda added. “You’re pathetic.”
Carol leaned forward. “Go find a single man, sweetheart. Or better yet — find yourself.”
Amber’s bravado shattered. “You don’t understand—”
“Oh, we understand perfectly,” I snapped. “You think the world owes you. Let me tell you: it owes you nothing.”
When we finally let her leave, she stumbled across the lawn like she’d been through a storm.
The next morning, a “For Sale” sign appeared on her yard.
Andy, of course, noticed. “Huh. She left without saying anything. Wonder why?”
I sipped my coffee. “Maybe this just wasn’t her happy place.”
Two months later, new neighbors moved in — the Johnsons, a sweet retired couple. Andy smiled, looking out the window. “Much better view.”
“Much better everything,” I agreed.
Because here’s the truth: women like me, who’ve survived decades of marriage, don’t play around. We fight for what’s ours — and we win. And if a 25-year-old Barbie doll thinks she can steal our happiness, she’s about to get a crash course in reality.