At 52, I thought I’d seen every type of gold-digging drama queen—until Amber moved in next door. Newly divorced from a man old enough to be her grandfather, she arrived in stilettos and silk robes, flaunting half his fortune and a house right beside mine. My husband Andy was polite, but I spotted the warning signs immediately. There were muffins exchanged and fake smiles all around, and it wasn’t long before Amber set her sights on Andy.
She turned up the charm with low-cut workout clothes, staged emergencies, and flirty compliments tossed over the fence that made my blood boil. Andy, bless him, seemed clueless. But I knew exactly what game she was playing. One night, she faked a “pipe burst” and lured Andy over, dressed in sheer lingerie and candlelight. He jumped back in shock. “I’m married!” he exclaimed. That’s when I knew he’d passed the test—but I wasn’t finished.
The next morning, I borrowed his phone and sent Amber a fake flirty message as bait. That evening, she strutted into our home expecting seduction—only to find my entire book club waiting for her. Retired teachers, cops, grandmothers—they all calmly let her know they’d seen her kind before. The act was over. She left humiliated and shaken, and by morning, a “For Sale” sign stood on her lawn.
When Andy asked why she disappeared so suddenly, I just smiled over my coffee. Some women think marriage is something to be stolen like a purse. But women like me? We’ve been around long enough to spot a thief—and shut her down before she ever gets through the door.
