At 52, I thought I’d seen every trick in the book when it came to husband-stealing drama queens. Turns out, I was wrong. My new neighbor, a freshly divorced yoga Barbie, tried turning my husband into her next accessory. She quickly learned why flirting with a married man is always a bad idea.
Three months ago, a moving truck pulled up next door. Out stepped Amber — 25, blonde, fresh off a divorce, and flaunting an attitude that screamed “your husband’s next.” The street already knew her story: she’d married 73-year-old Mr. Patterson, then walked away with half his assets.
I spotted her through my kitchen window, directing movers in gym shorts at eight in the morning. “Andy, come look at our new neighbor!” I called. My husband nearly choked on his coffee. “She’s… young.” I crossed my arms. “She’s trouble. Mark my words.”
Being the good neighbor I was raised to be, I baked muffins and marched over. Amber answered the door in a silk robe that barely covered anything. “Oh my gosh, how sweet! You must be Debbie! Andy told me all about you.”
My smile tightened. “Did he? When exactly did you two chat?” “Yesterday evening. He was watering your roses. Such a gentleman.”
“Yes, he takes very good care of what’s his,” I replied. She giggled, “Well, if you ever need anything… anything at all… I’m right here!”
Within a week, Amber’s “innocent” behavior escalated. Every morning she waved at Andy like she was flagging down a helicopter. “Morning, Andy! Love that shirt!” “Your lawn looks amazing! You must work out!” “Could you help me with this heavy box sometime? I’m just so weak!”
I watched from behind the curtains, steam practically shooting from my ears.
Amber began jogging past our house every evening, stopping for “water breaks” in outfits that left nothing to the imagination. “Andy, you wouldn’t happen to have a cold bottle of water, would you?” she panted. My husband, bless his oblivious heart, handed her his own.
I appeared with the garden hose. “Amber, honey, if you’re that hot, I’d be happy to cool you down!” She jumped back like I was holding a snake.
Then came the ultimate stunt: pounding on our door in a bathrobe, claiming her bathroom pipe had burst. Andy grabbed his toolbox and rushed over. I followed.
Inside, there was no leak. Just candlelight, rose petals, soft jazz — and Amber in lace lingerie. Andy froze. “Amber?? What the hell is this?” “Surprise!” she smiled. Andy stepped back. “Are you out of your mind? I’m a married man.”
Relief washed over me. My Andy had passed the test. But Amber wasn’t done — and neither was I.
I borrowed Andy’s spare phone and sent Amber a message pretending to be him: “Hey beautiful. My wife’s out tonight. Come over at eight.” She replied instantly: “Ooooh naughty. I’ll be there!”
That evening, my living room was packed with the fiercest women in the neighborhood — retired cop Susan, PTA Margaret, Linda the organizer, Carol the single mom of five. At eight sharp, Amber strutted in, expecting Andy. Instead, fifteen pairs of eyes stared her down.
“You made several mistakes,” Susan said. “We’ve all been watching your little performance,” Margaret added. “The jogging, the fake emergencies,” Linda chimed in. “The disrespect for a 30-year marriage,” I finished.
Amber tried to deny it, but I held up Andy’s phone with the incriminating texts. She bolted for the door, only to be stopped by Susan. What followed wasn’t a fight — it was an education. Fifteen women, decades of wisdom, made it clear her games wouldn’t be tolerated.
Two days later, a “For Sale” sign appeared on Amber’s lawn. Three weeks later, she was gone. No goodbye, no cookies, nothing.
Months later, a lovely older couple moved in. Andy smiled, “Much better view.” I agreed. Here’s the thing about us middle-aged married women: we didn’t survive this long by being sweet and passive. We fight for what’s ours — and we win.
