My New Neighbor Was Shamelessly Flirting with My Husband — So I Taught Her a Brutal Lesson

At 52, I thought I’d experience every trick when it related with husband-stealing drama queens. Boy, was I wrong. My new neighbor, a timely divorced, young yoga Barbie, tried changing my husband into her next accessory. So I taught her why flirting with a married man is always an awful idea.

Three months ago, a moving truck halted next door, and out stepped trouble in stilettos. Her name was Amber. She was 25, blonde, and hot off a divorce that left her with a house she didn’t pay for and an attitude that shouted, “your husband’s next.”

She’d married 73-year-old lonely Mr. Patterson, then abandoned with half his assets when he couldn’t catch up with her “needs.”

“Andy, come look at our new neighbor!” I called my husband.

He said. “Well, she’s… young.”

“She’s trouble.” I crossed my arms. “Mark my words.”“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 prepared blueberry muffins and marched over to Amber’s house the next morning.

“Oh my gosh, how sweet!” She said. “You must be Debbie! Andy told me all about you.”

My smile tightened. “Oh, did he? When exactly did you two have time to communicate?”

“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 looks after things.”

“Yes, he takes very good care of what’s HIS!” I replied.

“Well, if you ever need anything… anything at all… I’m right here!”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Every morning, she’d arrive at her fence just as Andy left for work, waving like she was waving down a rescue helicopter.

“Morning, Andy! Love that shirt on you!”

“Your lawn looks great! You must work out!”

“Could you help me with this heavy box sometime? I’m just so weak!”

“Morning, Amber! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

She cleaned up, clearly annoyed by my interruption. “Oh, hi Debbie. Yes, it’s wonderful.”

“Andy, honey, don’t forget we have dinner with my mother tonight,” I announced loudly.

“Actually, I was hoping Andy might help me get rid of my couch this weekend,” Amber said. “It’s so heavy, and I don’t know any other strong men around here.”

“I’m sure the moving company has a number you can call,” I replied sweetly.

Andy cleared his throat. “I, uh, better get to work. See you later, honey.”

Amber’s smile bobbled as she watched him drive away. “You’re so protective of him.”

“Thirty years of marriage will do that to a woman!”

***

Amber began jogging past our house every evening, always when Andy was working in the yard.

“This heat is just k*lling me!” she said.

“Andy, you wouldn’t occur to have a cold bottle of water, would you?”

“Here, take mine.”

“You’re such a lifesaver. Literally!”

I appeared on the porch with a garden hose. “Amber, honey, if you’re that hot, I’d be happy to cool you down!”

Two weeks later, Amber played her ace card. It was Friday night, and Andy and I were settling in to watch a movie when someone hammered our door like the house was on fire.

“Who could that be at this hour?”

“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?”

“Of course, let me take my toolbox.”

“I’ll come too,” I said.

“No, honey, you don’t need to—”

“Oh my God! My bathroom is flooding! Hurry, Andy… hurry!”

I followed the soft sound of her voice echoing down the hallway. “It’s back here in the master bathroom,” she said.

Andy followed, toolbox still in hand.

I reached the hallway just in time to see her push the door open and gesture like she was disclosing a magic trick.