I thought buying our dream home would bring Louis and me even closer, but instead, it became the setting where I uncovered my husband’s true character—and just how far some people will go to get what they want.
Louis and I met right after college, both broke and starting out in our first real jobs.
At that time, we had nothing but big dreams and empty wallets. We’d sit together in his cramped studio apartment, eating ramen noodles and picturing our future.
“One day, we’ll have a real house,” he used to say, pulling me close on his old secondhand couch. “With a yard and everything.”
“And a kitchen big enough for us to actually cook in together,” I’d laugh in response.
We scraped together money for our wedding dollar by dollar. I still remember counting quarters just so we could afford flowers for the centerpieces.
Once we were married, we immediately started saving for a house.
It wasn’t easy. There were months when we had to choose between putting money aside and enjoying a night out. But I believed we were a team, working toward something beautiful.
After five years of financial struggles, long work hours, and living in tiny apartments, we finally bought a home. I thought we were stronger than ever.
The house was everything we’d dreamed of—two stories, a white picket fence, and a big backyard perfect for barbecues. My graphic design business was thriving, we had room to breathe, and Louis and I even started talking seriously about having kids.
“I can see them running around in that yard,” he’d say, sipping coffee by the kitchen window.
“Me too,” I’d smile, feeling optimistic about our future.
Only a few weeks after moving in, Louis called me to the front door one afternoon.
“Bella, come meet our neighbor,” he said.
Standing next to him was a petite elderly woman with silver hair, kind eyes, and a floral dress.
“This is Ruth,” Louis introduced warmly. “She lives right next door.”
Ruth took my hands in hers, her grip surprisingly firm. “Welcome to the neighborhood, dear. It’s so nice to have young people living nearby again.”
I smiled back, but something about the way she studied me—her eyes scanning every detail of my face and mannerisms—made me uneasy.
Later, I mentioned it to Louis.
“Did you notice how Ruth kept staring at me?” I asked.
He laughed. “She’s just lonely. Her husband passed away a couple of years ago, and she doesn’t have much family.”
“I know, but the way she looked at me felt… off.”
“You’re reading too much into it,” he insisted. “She’s sweet—reminds me of my grandmother.”
I tried to believe him.
But then Louis started spending more and more time at Ruth’s house. It began with fixing a dripping faucet, then moving furniture, then repairing her fence.
“Isn’t it strange how much she suddenly needs help?” I asked one evening.
“Maybe she used to hire people,” Louis shrugged. “Now she doesn’t have to.”
Eventually, I teased him about it. “You spend more time with Ruth than with me.”
He just laughed. “Don’t be silly—it’s just neighborly stuff.”
Then came the Saturday morning that changed everything. Louis walked past me with a trowel and a flat of flower seedlings.
“Where are those going?” I asked.
“Ruth’s garden,” he replied casually.
Something in his tone made me suspicious. Minutes later, I grabbed my old binoculars and crept to the small hill behind our backyard—perfect for seeing into Ruth’s garden.
At first, it seemed innocent—Louis was planting flowers, dirt on his hands. Then a young blonde woman in a skimpy tank top and shorts stepped out of Ruth’s house.
“Who is that?” I whispered to myself.
She crouched beside Louis, made him laugh, then handed him a single red rose before wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him.
I felt sick.
Ruth appeared on her porch with a tray holding three glasses of lemonade—clearly expecting the girl. She watched them with a satisfied smile.
I couldn’t take it. I marched to Ruth’s gate, recording video on my phone.
By the time I got there, the girl was practically in Louis’s lap, and Ruth was refilling their drinks like she was hosting a romantic picnic.
“Louis,” I called out.
He froze. The girl jumped off his lap, blushing furiously.
“I thought you loved me,” I said, tears in my eyes. “And all this time, you’ve been coming here so this woman could set you up with someone else?”
The girl looked shocked. “He told me he was divorced. I didn’t know you existed.”
Ruth’s sweet demeanor vanished. “How dare you trespass! You have no right to accuse anyone!”
“Your granddaughter?” I asked, realizing the truth. “You planned this from the start, didn’t you?”
Ruth lifted her chin. “Liza deserves a good man.”
“He’s married!” I shouted.
She just smirked and implied that if I’d been a better wife, Louis wouldn’t have strayed.
I turned to Louis, who sat frozen, looking guilty and pathetic. “Don’t come home tonight.”
“Bella, we can work this out—”
“No, we can’t,” I cut him off.
I went home, packed his belongings into garbage bags, and left them outside. Three weeks later, I filed for divorce.
Louis begged, saying it was a mistake, but I was done. We sold the house and split the money.
He didn’t end up with Liza, though. A neighbor later told me Ruth showed up at his mother’s house, yelling about how he’d promised to marry Liza and then broke her heart. Turns out they’d been played too.
I was just relieved to be free of all of them.