Life with Paul was like a dream.
When I first moved into the neighborhood, he was just the friendly, helpful guy next door—a single dad who adored his little son, Noah. Over time, our friendship grew into something more. Paul was loving, devoted, and made me feel safe.
Then, I got pregnant.
Paul was over the moon. We talked about our future, raising our baby together, and even having a big wedding someday. I moved in shortly after our daughter, Ava, was born. We were a family.
At least, I thought we were.
Then came the knock.
I had just put Ava down for her nap when I opened the door. A woman stood there, glaring at me with a mix of disgust and rage.
“May I help you?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she stormed in like she owned the place.
“WHO ARE YOU?” she screamed, her voice shaking the walls. “And WHAT are you doing in MY HOUSE?!”
My stomach turned. “Excuse me?”
“I’M PAUL’S WIFE!” she shouted, her nostrils flaring. “GET. OUT. NOW.”
I froze. Paul’s wife? That wasn’t possible. He told me she left years ago. That she wanted nothing to do with him or Noah.
But this woman—this stranger—was standing in front of me, demanding I leave as if I was the intruder.
My hands trembled as I grabbed my phone and called Paul. He picked up on the second ring.
“Paul,” I whispered, barely able to breathe, “there’s a woman here saying she’s your wife.”
Silence.
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Then, I heard him exhale sharply.
“Listen to me. Whatever she says—don’t believe her. I’m on my way.”
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But before he could hang up, I heard something in the background. A voice. A woman’s voice.
And what she said shattered me.
“Paul, babe, come back to bed.”