When Louis and I finally bought our dream home, I thought it marked the beginning of something beautiful. After years of financial struggle, cramped apartments, and shared dreams over instant noodles, we’d made it. A two-story house, white picket fence, big yard — the future we’d imagined during late-night conversations on a secondhand couch was finally here.
We were excited about starting a family. My graphic design business was growing, and Louis often stood by the kitchen window with his coffee, picturing our future kids running through the backyard. Everything felt perfect… until Ruth entered the picture.
Ruth was our elderly next-door neighbor. She greeted us kindly, her voice syrupy sweet and hands warm, but something about her gaze unsettled me — like she was examining me, assessing me.
Louis didn’t see it. “She’s just lonely,” he said, brushing off my concerns.
Soon enough, he started spending more and more time at Ruth’s house. Fixing faucets. Moving furniture. Mending fences. And every time I questioned it, he laughed and said he was just being neighborly. But it became a pattern. A strange one.
One Saturday, he grabbed some flower seedlings and a trowel, saying he was planting them in Ruth’s garden. The way he avoided my eyes triggered something in me — a gut feeling I couldn’t ignore. I waited a few minutes, grabbed a pair of old binoculars, and crept to the hill behind our backyard.
There he was, kneeling in Ruth’s garden. At first, it looked innocent. Until a young blonde woman — barely in her twenties, dressed provocatively — stepped out and joined him. She handed him a red rose and kissed him. My heart dropped.
Then Ruth appeared, smiling like the proud host of a romantic picnic, carrying lemonade for the two of them.
I confronted them. The woman, Liza, was Ruth’s granddaughter — and had no idea Louis was married. He had told her he was divorced.
Ruth didn’t deny it. She defended her actions, claiming her granddaughter deserved a good man and that maybe I hadn’t been “good enough.” Every “repair” was a setup to get Louis and Liza together. It had all been planned.
I walked home, packed Louis’s things in garbage bags, and left them on the porch.
Three weeks later, I filed for divorce.
We sold the house and split the profits. Louis begged, blamed confusion, said it “meant nothing.” But I was done. Finished.
Ironically, he didn’t end up with Liza. I later learned Ruth caused a scene at his mother’s house, furious that he had lied and betrayed her granddaughter too. Turns out, they were just pawns in each other’s games — but I was the only one who walked away free.