After seventeen years of marriage, I never imagined another woman would sit in my kitchen, look me straight in the eye, and calmly tell me she planned to take my husband.
When Vanessa finally stopped pretending, I realized arguing with her would be pointless.
So instead, I let her believe she was winning.
My husband, Irvin, and I had been married for seventeen years when Vanessa moved into the house next door.
She was newly divorced.
Beautiful.
Confident.
And completely alone.
At first, I actually felt sorry for her.
I baked an apple pie as a welcome gift, helped her carry in a few boxes, and invited her over for coffee because I remembered how miserable moving could be.
That was my first mistake.
Within weeks, Vanessa seemed to develop a strange dependence on Irvin.
Whenever something needed fixing, she called him.
Not a plumber.
Not a handyman.
My husband.
