At 52, I thought I’d seen it all when it came to drama queens trying to steal husbands. But I was wrong. My new neighbor, Amber, a freshly divorced, young yoga enthusiast, tried turning my husband into her next trophy. What happened next was a brutal lesson she never saw coming about why flirting with a married man is always a bad idea.
Three months ago, a moving truck pulled up next door, and out stepped Amber—25 years old, blonde, recently divorced, and carrying an attitude that screamed, “I’m coming for your husband.” The whole neighborhood knew her story: she’d married a wealthy, lonely 73-year-old man, Mr. Patterson, and left with half his assets when he couldn’t keep up with her demands. I watched her from my kitchen window as she directed movers in gym shorts, not exactly what you’d expect at 8 a.m. on a quiet street. “Andy, come check out our new neighbor!” I called my husband. He wandered over with his coffee, blinking in surprise. “Well, she’s… young,” he said, clearly taken aback. “She’s trouble,” I warned, crossing my arms. “Mark my words.” Andy laughed 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!” I said with a smile. Being the good neighbor I was raised to be, I baked blueberry muffins and went over the next morning. Amber answered the door in a silk robe that barely covered anything. “Oh my gosh, how sweet!” she exclaimed, clutching the muffin basket like treasure. “You must be Debbie! Andy told me all about you.” My smile tightened. “Oh, did he? When exactly did you two chat?” “Yesterday evening when I was getting my mail. He was watering your roses,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “Such a gentleman. You’re so lucky to have a man who takes care of things.” The way she said “things” sent chills down my spine. “Yes, he takes very good care of what’s HIS!” I replied, stressing 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” flirting escalated faster than a teenager’s texting bill. Every morning, she appeared by her fence just as Andy left for work, waving like she was signaling 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 so weak!” I watched this circus from behind the curtains, steam practically shooting from my ears. One Thursday morning, I’d had enough. I stepped outside just as Amber was doing her usual performance. “Morning, Amber! Beautiful day, isn’t it?” She straightened up, clearly annoyed. “Oh, hi Debbie. Yes, it’s gorgeous.” “Andy, honey, don’t forget we have dinner with my mother tonight,” I said loudly, sliding my arm through his.
Before I could finish, Amber jumped in, batting her eyelashes. “Actually, I was hoping Andy might help me move my couch this weekend. 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 said sweetly. Andy cleared his throat. “I better get to work. See you later, honey.” He 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 proudly. The next week, Amber took things to a new level. She jogged past our house every evening when Andy was outside working. Her running outfits left little to the imagination, and her “accidental” water breaks seemed perfectly timed to catch Andy’s attention. “This heat is killing me!” she panted, fanning herself dramatically. “Andy, you wouldn’t happen to have a cold bottle of water, would you?” Andy, bless him, handed her his bottle. “Here, take mine.” She pressed it to her chest like it was a diamond. “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!” She jumped back like I was holding a snake. “Oh, that’s okay! I should get back to my run.” 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 pounded on our door like it was an emergency. Andy jumped up. “Who could that be at this hour?” Through the peephole, I saw Amber in a bathrobe, hair disheveled, looking panicked. “Andy! Thank God you’re home! I think a pipe burst in my bathroom! There’s water everywhere! Could you please help me?” My husband’s protective instincts kicked in immediately. “Of course, let me grab my toolbox.” I grabbed my jacket. “I’ll come too.” “No, honey, you don’t need to—” But Amber interrupted with another breathless, “Oh my God! Hurry, Andy!” He was already halfway across the lawn, toolbox in hand, like some suburban superhero. I followed like a cat stalking a mouse. Amber opened her bathroom door, lit with candles, rose petals scattered everywhere, and soft jazz playing. She was standing there in lace lingerie and high heels, desperate and waiting. Andy stopped dead in his tracks. “AMBER?? What is this?” “Surprise!” she smiled, like this was cute. “Are you out of your mind? I’m a married man,” Andy snapped, pulling away from her. I quietly left, blinking back tears—half relief, half pride. My Andy had passed the test: loyal, if a little clueless. Back home, Andy set the toolbox down, hands shaking. “Debbie, I swear I had no idea.” “I know,” I hugged him. “But now you see why I’ve been warning you.” The next week, I put my plan into action. I got Amber’s number from our sweet elderly neighbor Lisa and, while Andy was in the shower, sent Amber a text pretending to be him, inviting her over that night. It took her two minutes to reply, and the texts were dripping with flirtation. At eight o’clock, Amber showed up at our door, heels clicking, dressed to impress, ready for her big moment. I flipped on all the lights. “Amber! What a lovely surprise! Come in!” She froze, realizing this wasn’t going to be the night she imagined. Instead of Andy, she was greeted by 15 pairs of eyes—strong, no-nonsense women from our neighborhood. Amber’s face drained of color. “I think I made a mistake.” “Several mistakes,” Susan said firmly. We calmly laid out exactly what we thought of her behavior—targeting a married man, faking emergencies, flaunting disrespect. Amber’s tough act cracked under the weight of decades of experience from these women. “You want an easy life? Get a job. Want a husband? Find a single one. Want respect? Start by showing some.” When we finally let her leave, Amber stumbled away like she’d been through a storm. Two days later, a “For Sale” sign appeared on her lawn. Three weeks later, she was gone without a word. Andy noticed, puzzled. “She didn’t say goodbye. Wonder why she left so suddenly?” I smiled, sipping my coffee. “Maybe this just wasn’t her happy place after all.” A couple months later, new neighbors moved in—lovely, respectful folks who fit right in. That’s the thing about us middle-aged married women: we fight for what’s ours and we win. Any young 25-year-old thinking she can walk in and steal our happiness is in for a reality check.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the plot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intentional by the author.
The author and publisher make no representations as to the accuracy of events or character portrayals and are not responsible for any misunderstandings. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
