Something about my neighbor Nelly didn’t sit right. In three years, I’d rarely seen her outside, except at the mailbox or heading to the store. She’d been heavily pregnant when she moved in—but no one had ever seen her baby.
That evening on the porch, watching our boys play in the sunset, I confessed my unease to my husband, Evan. He shrugged it off, saying maybe she was just shy or protective, but I couldn’t shake the suspicion.
A week later, I spotted Nelly tending her garden. When I greeted her cheerily, she recoiled in fear and shut the door before I could finish. Mrs. Freddie, our nosy neighbor, noticed my frustration and promised to get to the bottom of it.
A few days later, Mrs. Freddie knocked on Nelly’s door with a homemade pie—only to be yelled at and rejected. As we exchanged theories, I found a letter belonging to Nelly in my own mailbox and seized the chance to investigate.
Peering through Nelly’s window, I saw a small boy with a birthmark—shockingly identical to Evan’s. My scream echoed through the neighborhood as I collapsed.
When I came to, Nelly stood at her door with the boy behind her. The truth hit me: she’d had a secret affair with Evan four years ago. He’d arranged for her to move in next door, forbid her from speaking to anyone or showing the child—even to me.
I confronted her, and she tearfully confessed. Evan visited, posing as a friend to the boy, Tommy, who remained blissfully unaware of his true father.
Devastated, I filed for divorce when Evan returned—served with divorce papers as Nelly and Tommy emerged. He pleaded, but it was too late. As things fell apart, his parents offered me half their company to secure my sons’ future—I accepted.
Nelly and Tommy moved away shortly after. Though part of me felt pity, most of me was focused on healing and moving forward.
One afternoon, I hugged my boys playing in the yard and told them: “Always be honest, kind, and respectful. Treat others as you’d want to be treated.” They nodded, and for the first time in weeks, I felt hopeful.