My neighbor came to my door in tears, exclaiming, “Your husband is an awful man!”

Someone was pounding on the door like their life depended on it. When I opened it, I found my neighbor, Melissa, standing there. She was shaking and had tears streaming down her face.

Melissa was usually the epitome of poise — a 35-year-old woman who worked in PR and always seemed calm under pressure. But now she was a complete mess. “Melissa?

What happened?” I asked, my heart already racing. Before she could answer, I noticed movement behind her. About 30 feet away, sprinting toward the house, was my husband, Andrew.

The same Andrew who was supposed to be at work. His face was pale, his tie out of line, and he looked furious. “YOUR HUSBAND IS A MONSTER!” Melissa screamed, her voice cracking as she clutched the doorframe.

“What the hell is going on?!” I shouted back, caught between confusion and dread. Melissa grabbed my arm and yanked me inside, slamming the door shut behind her. “You need to listen to me,” she said, her voice trembling.

“This isn’t something I can stay silent about anymore.”

Andrew’s fists pounded on the door. “Open up, Emma! Whatever she’s saying, it’s not true!”

But the fear in Melissa’s eyes told me otherwise.

“Start talking,” I demanded, my voice low but firm. She took a deep breath, as though gathering every ounce of courage she had. “Emma, I’m… I’m Andrew’s mistress.”

The words hit me like a truck.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said my voice barely above a whisper. “For two years now,” she continued, her words tumbling out in a rush. “He told me he was going to leave you.

He said he loved me. I believed him.”

“Melissa, stop,” I said, shaking my head. “This can’t be true.

You’re lying.”

“I wish I were,” she said, her eyes welling up again. “But I have proof. Texts.Continue reading…