Across the Hall from My Husband’s Ex: A Neighborly Nightmare

I never imagined my marriage would get tangled up just because of a neighbor. But when that neighbor is my husband’s ex-wife, things get complicated fast. My husband, James, and I live in a cozy apartment in a charming old building in Lisbon’s Alfama district. The narrow cobblestone streets and pastel-colored facades make it feel like a postcard. So, you can imagine my shock when I learned that Claire, James’s ex, had moved into the apartment right across the hall. Why, of all places, did she choose our building, our floor?

It started three months ago. I was in the creaky old elevator, juggling grocery bags, when the doors slid open, and there she was. “Oh, you must be James’s new wife!” Claire said, her smile sharp as she extended a manicured hand. “We’re neighbors now!” Her perfume lingered as she stepped out, leaving me stunned. She’d rented the flat opposite ours, and her presence felt like an intrusion into our quiet life.

James just shrugged when I told him. “She can live wherever she wants,” he said, sipping his coffee. “It’s not like we’re friends.” I wanted to believe him, but something about Claire’s smug grin in the elevator made my stomach twist.

Claire’s presence became impossible to ignore. Every time I stepped out—whether to grab pastries from the corner bakery or toss out the recycling—she was there, dressed like she was auditioning for a fashion shoot. One morning, as I hauled a bin bag to the chute, she leaned against her doorframe, phone pressed to her ear, laughing loudly. “Divorce was the best thing I ever did,” she said, her eyes flicking toward me. “No one to nag me now!” I rolled my eyes and kept walking, but her words stung.

Then came the calls. Claire started ringing James for the smallest things. “Can you help me hang a picture?” she’d ask, her voice sugary through the phone. Or, “My sink’s acting up—could you take a look?” These were jobs for a handyman, not my husband. James, bless his oblivious heart, would just grab his toolbox and go, saying, “It’s no big deal.” But it was a big deal to me. The final straw came one rainy evening in Porto, where we’d gone for a weekend getaway. At 10 p.m., Claire texted James to pick up her takeout from the lobby because she “didn’t want to get wet.” I nearly threw his phone out the hotel window.

Back in Lisbon, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Over dinner, I set my fork down and looked James in the eye. “Are you her husband or mine?” I asked, my voice shaking. He frowned, confused, but when I listed every favor—pictures, sinks, takeout—he went quiet.

“OK, I didn’t realize how bad it looked,” he admitted, rubbing his neck. “I’ll stop.” His promise felt like a lifeline, but I wondered if Claire would back off so easily.

James kept his word, but Claire didn’t make it easy. The next time she called, asking him to fix a “faulty” lamp, he shut her down. “Call an electrician,” he said flatly, hanging up. I was proud but braced for her reaction. Sure enough, Claire’s requests stopped, but her attitude didn’t. In the hallway, she’d flash me smug smiles or make snide comments about “married life” loud enough for me to hear. I ignored her, focusing on our life—weekend trips to Sintra, lazy brunches in our sunny kitchen.

One evening, I ran into Claire in the building’s courtyard, both of us caught in a sudden drizzle. She was struggling with a broken umbrella, her usual polish replaced by a rare vulnerability. “You must think I’m pathetic,” she said suddenly, her voice low. I froze, unsure how to respond. “I just… miss having someone around,” she admitted, eyes on the wet cobblestones. For a moment, I saw her not as a rival but as someone stuck in the past.

That encounter shifted something. I didn’t forgive her antics, but I felt a pang of empathy. Back home, I told James about it. “She’s lonely,” I said, stirring my tea. “But that’s not our problem.” He nodded, and we agreed to keep our distance, letting Claire figure out her own path.

Slowly, things settled. Claire started hiring professionals for repairs, and our hallway encounters became brief, polite nods. The tension was gone, replaced by a fragile truce. I realized I didn’t need to compete with her—my life with James was enough.

Life in our Lisbon apartment feels lighter now. Claire’s still across the hall, but she’s just a neighbor, not a storm cloud over our marriage. James and I have grown closer, talking more openly about boundaries and what makes us feel secure. It’s funny how a challenge like this can strengthen you, like a tree weathering a storm. Our evenings are filled with simple joys—cooking pasta, planning trips to Barcelona, or just laughing over a glass of wine.

Sometimes, I see Claire in the elevator, her designer bags and sharp smiles unchanged. But I don’t feel threatened anymore. If anything, I feel a quiet sadness for her, clinging to a past that’s long gone. I hope she finds her own happiness, but that’s her journey, not mine.

Have you ever had a neighbor who stirred up drama? Or maybe a situation that tested your relationship? I’d love to hear how you handled it. For me, this was a reminder to trust my instincts, set clear boundaries, and focus on the life I’m building with James. Here’s to calm hallways and stronger love.