Shortened Version:
Something felt off about my neighbor, Nelly. In three years, I’d hardly ever seen her outside—just once when she moved in heavily pregnant. Yet, no one had ever seen her baby.
One evening, watching our boys play, I mentioned it to Evan. He brushed it off as her being private. But I knew something was wrong.
A week later, I tried chatting while she tended her garden. She bolted inside, leaving me shaken. Mrs. Freddie, another neighbor, promised to uncover the truth with a touch of Southern charm.
Later, spotting a letter addressed to Nelly, I sneaked a peek through her window. I saw a little boy with a birthmark identical to Evan’s. I screamed and collapsed.
When I woke, Mrs. Freddie and neighbors were around. I stormed to Nelly’s door, confronting her. She revealed that Evan was the boy’s father, and Nelly had been hiding him next door for years with Evan’s covert help.
Devastated, I served divorce papers. Evan’s parents compensated me with half their company. Nelly and the boy moved away.
Alone, I held my sons tightly and told them: “Always be honest, kind, and respectful.” I couldn’t change the past, but I could shape their future.