When Louis and I bought our dream home, I thought it would bring us closer. Instead, it revealed a side of him I never imagined.
We’d started with nothing—sharing ramen in his tiny studio, dreaming of a house with a yard and a big kitchen. Years of saving finally paid off, and we moved into a two-story with a white picket fence. Everything felt perfect—until we met our neighbor, Ruth.
At first, she seemed like a harmless, lonely widow. But Louis quickly became her handyman—fixing faucets, fences, and even planting flowers in her garden. One morning, I followed my gut and watched from the hill behind our yard. There he was—laughing with a young blonde, who then kissed him—while Ruth looked on, serving them lemonade like a proud matchmaker.
Confronting them revealed the truth: the girl was Ruth’s granddaughter, and Ruth had been setting them up behind my back. The granddaughter was horrified to learn Louis was married; Ruth was unapologetic, claiming her granddaughter “deserved a good man.”
I told Louis not to come home. Within weeks, I filed for divorce. They didn’t end up together—Ruth eventually turned on him too—but by then, I was free. The dream house was gone, but so was the man who never deserved it in the first place.