Marlene was always watching me from behind her peeling white fence, eyes crawling over my yard. I thought she was just a nosy neighbor—until one afternoon, she leaned in and whispered, “Emma, your husband is not who you think he is.”

She claimed Robert had women over whenever I took the kids to my mom’s. “They call him different names. Jordan, Riley…” Her words burrowed deep. That night, I lay awake, Robert’s warmth beside me suddenly cold.

The next weekend, I pretended to leave town with the kids, then doubled back. From behind the shed, I watched headlights pull up. Two women got out, greeted Robert with flowers, and called him Alex.

My stomach dropped. I crept inside and up the stairs. The attic door—once stuck shut—now glowed with light. Inside, Robert stood with the women, the walls freshly painted, shelves lined, an easel waiting.

He turned, startled. “Emma—I was going to surprise you. A studio. For your art.”It hit me all at once. The “other women” were decorators and designers. The different names? Theirs, not his. Marlene had seenhelpers, not mistresses.The next morning, I faced her over the fence.“Yes, Marlene,” I said. “I found out. My husband’s better than fine.”

She scowled, turning back to her wilted flowers. I walked into my studio, the air rich with paint and lavender, and smiled. Sometimes, people peering over fences aren’t searching for truth.They’re just looking for trouble.