Living in my own house started feeling like a war zone, all thanks to my next-door nightmare, Clara. Every day brought a new jab, and I’d wake up bracing for her latest move. Some mornings were peaceful, but it was the kind of quiet that promised trouble. Other times, she’d strike hard, and I knew she was out to get me—until a mysterious note flipped my life upside down with the words, “You need to know the truth about your husband.”
When Jack and I settled into this place after my dad passed, I hoped for a calm restart. Clara dashed that dream fast. She ignored Jack like he was invisible but zeroed in on me with pure spite. Her scruffy mutt tore up my garden, she hacked down my favorite tree over a few stray branches, and once, at 6 p.m., she called the cops on our barbecue, claiming we were too loud. I quit planting flowers—it was pointless with her around.
One bright day, I was yanking weeds when a wall of water slammed into me, relentless and icy. I dropped everything, drenched, and saw the hose swinging from Clara’s side. “Turn it off, you mean hag!” I hollered, spitting water. She peeked over, all fake innocence, “Oh, didn’t see you there, Ellen.” I wasn’t buying it. “You aimed right at me!” She smirked, “It’s just water—chill out,” and vanished. Soaked and fuming, I stomped inside.
Jack glanced up from his book. “What happened to you?” “Clara!” I barked. “You grew up near her—go say something!” He shrugged, “We weren’t buddies.” “I don’t care—do it!” He suggested moving instead, saying we could profit off the house. “No way,” I shot back, “she’s not running me out!” I stormed off to dry off, but he never confronted her, always dodging with “too busy” excuses, blaming late work shifts.
I trusted Jack—nearing 50, he was probably planning retirement, not hiding anything. He kept nudging us to sell, but this was my home, and I wasn’t budging. One day, I spotted Clara’s son, Tim, at her door, looking worn out. “Hey, Ellen,” he said, polite as ever. “Your mom’s making my life hell,” I replied. He sighed, “I’ll talk to her—sorry.” How did a guy so decent come from her? Rumor had it her husband bailed when she was pregnant—maybe Tim got his heart elsewhere.
Sipping tea in my yard, craving quiet, Clara piped up, “Tim’s got a big job now—and a fiancée.” “Nice,” I muttered, eyes on my cup. She sneered, “Must sting, no kids to cheer for.” Her barb cut deep—I’d longed for babies, but Jack always delayed, and now, at 50, that ship had sailed. “Drop dead, Clara!” I snapped, retreating inside, tears stinging.
Next morning, at the market, I returned to find Jack gone. Checking the mail, a plain note stood out: “You need to know the truth about your husband,” with a park meetup spot. My pulse raced—who wrote it? That night, I fibbed to Jack about errands and headed out. At the park, Clara approached, grim-faced. “You?” I groaned. “What now?” “You deserve the truth,” she said, showing me a photo—Jack kissing some young woman in his car.
“No—he wouldn’t,” I stammered. “He did,” Clara said. “Cheaters don’t change. He ditched me for you when I was pregnant with Tim.” My knees buckled. “He’s Tim’s dad?” “Yep,” she confirmed. “I didn’t know,” I gasped. Her hardness softened, “Really?” “Never,” I said. “I get why you hate me now.” She admitted, “I might’ve been wrong about you.”
“Why tell me this?” I asked. “No one should live a lie like I did,” she replied. We drove back in silence, my mind reeling. Jack greeted me casually, “Found a realtor—let’s move.” “I’m staying,” I said, icy. “I know about Tim, Clara, and your fling.” He paled, “I can explain—” “Out,” I cut in. He begged, then lashed out, “Who’d want you, childless?” “I’ll take my chances,” I said. He stormed off, door banging. Alone, I felt free—Clara and I might even find peace now.
