When my friend, Rachel, asked me to look after her house while she was away, I agreed, never imagining I’d catch her husband cheating and plotting to take her home. I told her the truth, but instead of gratitude, she accused me, showing me who she really was.
Rachel and I were tight since college, sharing everything from late-night talks to heartbreak. But her husband, Dan, always rubbed me the wrong way—his slick charm felt fake. I stayed quiet, but my gut screamed trouble. One warm evening, we sat in her backyard, her cat, Luna, lounging nearby. Rachel sipped lemonade, then said, “I’m off to Seattle for work. Can you check on the house? Feed Luna, grab mail?” I asked, “What’s Dan doing?” She shrugged, “He says chores aren’t his thing.” I called out her defending him, and she snapped, “You’ve always hated him. You’re just lonely.” Stung, I agreed to help—for her.
Days later, I pulled into Rachel’s driveway as dark clouds loomed. Luna purred at my feet as I fed her and checked the house. Everything seemed normal until I heard laughter upstairs—Dan’s voice and a woman’s. My pulse raced as I tiptoed to the bedroom. Through a gap, I saw Dan with a woman in Rachel’s jacket, using her cup. He boasted, “She signed the forms blind. Thinks it’s a refinance. This house is ours soon.” The woman asked about Rachel’s stuff, and Dan laughed, “We’ll dump it. Cat’s gone too. I’m looking at a Miami condo.”
My stomach churned. They were stealing Rachel’s life. A floorboard creaked under me, and Dan’s eyes darted. I ran to my car, hands shaking, and called Rachel. “Dan’s cheating and stealing your house,” I said. She scoffed, “You’re making this up. You’re jealous.” Hurt, I begged, “I’m helping you.” She hung up, cold. That evening, Dan appeared at my place, warning, “Back off.” I stood my ground, knowing Rachel needed hard proof.
I hated it, but I used a fake call app to send Rachel a message saying I was in the ER after an accident. It was harsh, but it got her home fast. She showed up, pale and panicked. “You’re fine?” she asked. I confessed, “I lied to make you see the truth.” Angry but willing, she followed me to her house. We peeked inside—Dan and the woman were cozy on the couch. Rachel snapped photos, her face tight with rage.
We walked in. Boxes marked “junk” held Rachel’s things. She yelled, “Dan!” He froze, mumbling, “Why are you here?” Rachel roared, “You’re cheating, tossing my stuff, and stealing my home!” The woman bolted, but Dan smirked, “You signed the papers. It’s done.” Rachel snapped, “You lied. Lee was right.” She threw them out, fierce. Later, she said, “I knew he was off but needed proof. I let you play along.” I smiled, “I’ve got your back.” We unpacked her life, ready to rebuild.
