A WOMAN MOVED IN NEXT DOOR AND TOLD ME TO START PACKING BECAUSE SHE WAS TAKING MY HUSBAND. SIX WEEKS LATER I WALKED INTO HER PARTY UNINVITED, SET A BOX AT HER FEET, AND WATCHED HER WHOLE FACE COLLAPSE.
The wine glass shattered against her patio tile.
That was the first sound I heard when I stepped through the gate.
A dozen conversations died at once.
Forks stopped halfway to mouths.
And Camille turned around with a smile already freezing on her lips.
I want you to remember that sound.
The glass breaking.
Because that was the moment everything she’d built started to come apart.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me back up.
Let me tell you how we got here.
Daniel and I had been married nineteen years when Camille bought the house next door.
This is Maple Crest.
A quiet street.
The kind where people wave but don’t really know each other.
We’d lived there eleven years.
We liked it that way.
The house next to ours had been empty for months.
Old Mr. Delancey passed, and his kids sold it.
Then one Saturday a moving truck pulled up.
And out stepped Camille.
Freshly divorced. Stunning. Sure of herself.
She wore heels to supervise a moving crew.
Who does that?
Camille did.
I watched her from my kitchen window.
Directing two big men like a general.
And I felt something I’m not proud of.
I felt sorry for her.
I thought, poor thing.
New place. No husband. Starting over.
I should be kind.
So I was kind.
That was my first mistake.
I baked a casserole and carried it over.
She opened the door in a silk robe at two in the afternoon.
“Oh,” she said. “How… domestic.”
I should have heard it then.
The little curl in her voice.
But I didn’t.
I smiled and said welcome to the neighborhood.
Over the next week I helped her unpack.
I carried boxes.
I hung curtains while she pointed.
I lent her my good drill.
I had her over for wine on a Sunday evening.
Daniel grilled.
