When Nate, who had moved in next door a few weeks prior, knocked on my door at two in the morning, I felt like I was being a nice neighbor. He said he needed somewhere to stay since a pipe had burst. It didn’t feel right, but I allowed him in.
I found out about Nate’s lying the following morning. In addition to being with Vanessa, a woman who was married to Ryan, a Navy sailor, his allegedly flooded house appeared to be in good condition. I felt like a tool, a party to their affair, and I was furious.
When Ryan showed up at my home, suspicious of his wife’s whereabouts, I had to tell another lie to keep Vanessa and Nate safe. I was ensnared in their web of lies and felt guilty. In exchange for my silence, I requested $500 from Nate and vowed to keep quiet if he broke up with Vanessa.
I became aware that I was in a mess after Nate departed. I had blackmailed one individual and lied to an innocent one. The sleepy suburban neighborhood appeared to be full with lies and secrets. My attempt to be a nice neighbor had come at the expense of my mental health.
“I had run out of options. “I felt hopeless,” Nate remarked. He pledged as he walked out of my house for the last time, “You won’t see me again.” For both of our sakes, I hoped so.
