At 52, I thought I had seen it all when it came to women trying to steal someone’s husband, but I was wrong. My new neighbor, Amber, a fresh, young yoga enthusiast just out of a divorce, tried to make my husband her next prize. What followed was a harsh lesson she never expected about why flirting with a married man is always a terrible idea.
About three months ago, a moving truck pulled up next door, and out stepped Amber—25 years old, blonde, and with a confident attitude that screamed, “Your husband’s next.” Everyone on the street knew her story: she had married a lonely 73-year-old man, Mr. Patterson, and walked away 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 shorts that looked more suited for a gym than a front lawn at eight in the morning. “Andy, come check out our new neighbor!” I called to my husband. He wandered over with his coffee in hand and nearly choked. “Well, she’s… young,” he said. “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 replied. Trying to be a good neighbor, I baked blueberry muffins and went over the next morning. Amber answered the door wearing a silk robe that barely covered what she had. “Oh my gosh, how sweet!” she said, clutching the muffins like they were priceless. “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 said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Such a gentleman. You’re 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 said, emphasizing that last word. She giggled like I’d just 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 ramped up faster than a teenager’s texting bill. Every morning, she showed up at 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 just so weak!” I watched this circus from behind my curtains, steam practically shooting from my ears. One Thursday morning, I’d had enough.
I stepped outside as Amber was doing her usual act. “Morning, Amber! Beautiful day, isn’t it?” She straightened up, annoyed by my interruption. “Oh, hi Debbie. Yes, it’s gorgeous.” “Andy, honey, don’t forget we have dinner with my mother tonight,” I announced, sliding my arm through his. “Actually, I was hoping Andy might help me move my couch this weekend,” Amber interjected, batting her eyelashes. “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 as she watched him drive away. “You’re so protective of him.” “Thirty years of marriage will do that to a woman!” The next week, Amber turned up the audacity even more. She started jogging past our house every evening when Andy was outside working. Her running outfits left nothing to the imagination, and her “accidental” water breaks seemed perfectly choreographed. “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 his oblivious heart, handed her his own water bottle. “Here, take mine.” She pressed it to her chest like he’d given her diamonds. “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 messy, 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—” Before Andy could finish, Amber gasped again, “Oh my God! Hurry, Andy!” He was already halfway across the lawn, toolbox in hand, like some suburban superhero. I followed them like a cat stalking a mouse. Amber opened the bathroom door, which was lit with candles, rose petals scattered everywhere, and soft jazz playing. She stood there in lace lingerie and high heels, desperate and waiting. Andy stopped dead. “AMBER?? What is this?” “Surprise!” she smiled, acting like it was cute. “Are you out of your mind? I’m a married man,” Andy snapped, pulling away. I quietly left, blinking back tears—half relief, half pride. My Andy had passed the test: loyal, if a little clueless. Back at home, Andy set down the toolbox, 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 motion. I got Amber’s number from our elderly neighbor Lisa, saying I wanted to check in after “that pipe fiasco.” Lisa happily sent it over. While Andy was in the shower, I borrowed his second phone and sent Amber a text pretending to be him, inviting her over that night. It took her two minutes to reply with flirty messages. At eight, Amber showed up, 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, expecting Andy but finding 15 pairs of sharp eyes staring at her instead. Her face drained of color. “I think I made a mistake.” “Several mistakes,” said Susan, our retired police officer neighbor. 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 life 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 coffee. “Maybe this just wasn’t her happy place after all.” A couple months later, new neighbors moved in—lovely 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 25-year-old thinking she can walk in and steal our happiness is about to get a serious 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.
