My Divorced Neighbor Told Me, ‘I’m Going to Take Your Husband, so You’d Better Prepare for Divorce’ – I Decided to Teach Her a Lesson in a Way Only Another Woman Could
For about 40 minutes, I felt wonderful. Then I started wondering what Vanessa would do after losing in front of half the neighborhood.
“Don’t call me for things around your house anymore.”
The answer began with petty things.
A complaint about Irvin running the lawn mower at noon. An anonymous note about our trash cans being visible from the street. Irritating, but harmless.
Then the real letter arrived.
I stood in my kitchen and read it twice.
I had to stop all commercial food operations from our property pending a compliance review.
The answer began with petty things.
My bakery.
I had food permits. I had passed inspections. What I didn’t have, I discovered after several frantic phone calls,
was approval to use the converted garage itself for commercial activity.
Irvin had renovated it for me years earlier. A contractor had handled the work, and we had both believed the paperwork was complete.
“I thought it was done,” Irvin said, pale as he held the letter. “Claire, I swear.”
My bakery.
“I know.”
That was what made it worse. Vanessa hadn’t invented the problem. She had found a real one.
I had a wedding cake for 60 guests due in nine days and a corporate order for 200 cookies after that. Ingredients were already bought. Deposits had already gone toward supplies and a new mixer attachment.
My ovens were suddenly useless.
Vanessa hadn’t invented the problem.
Vanessa came to our porch that evening carrying a bottle of wine.
“I’ve come to make you an offer,” she said.
Irvin folded his arms. “Get to the point.”
“Tell the neighborhood that
you lied.” She stared at me. “You misunderstood an innocent friendship, humiliated me because I was jealous, and then apologize. Publicly.”
“I’ve come to make you an offer,”
“No,” I said.
“Get off our porch,” Irvin added.
Vanessa smiled. “You have until tomorrow morning to reconsider.”
She left the wine on the railing and walked home. The door had barely closed when Irvin rubbed both hands over his face.
“Don’t get mad at me,” he said, “but we should at least think about it.”
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