Something always felt off about our neighbor Nelly. In three years, she’d only been seen checking the mail or heading to the store. Strangest of all—she’d moved in while heavily pregnant, yet her child had remained unseen.
Later, I watched our boys play as the sunset cast warm hues across the yard, but unease clung to me. “Evan,” I said, “have you noticed anything odd about Nelly? Her isolation… and her baby—nobody’s ever seen the child.” He brushed it off, but every time I glanced at her house, I thought I caught a small face behind the curtains—then it vanished.
When I tried making small talk, Nelly recoiled in fear and slammed the door. Mrs. Freddie, our persistently polite neighbor, vowed to intervene with “a little Southern hospitality.” She brought over an apple pie, only to be met with a harsh “Go away!” and another slammed door.
Then, while picking up misdelivered mail, I peered through Nelly’s window—and froze. A little boy stared back at me, a familiar birthmark on his cheek. I collapsed in shock.
Neighbors revived me, and I stormed Nelly’s door. There he was—the boy, his cheek marked just like Evan’s. Something impossible.
Nelly trembled. “Four years ago, I met Evan. That one night… I got pregnant. He said to keep our secret, so he’d handle things, as long as I never spoke to you or let the child be seen.” Her son didn’t even know his father was him—just a friend.
My heart broke for my children, and for the child I didn’t know. I fled, dizzy, the world spinning.
When Evan returned from a trip, I greeted him with divorce papers—and then Nelly appeared, cradling the boy. Evan stuttered, tried to explain—“a mistake,” he said. I refused to hear it.
The fallout was swift. His parents compensated me with half their company. Nelly and her son quietly moved away.
One afternoon, I pulled my boys close. “Always be honest, kind, and respectful,” I implored them. Watching their innocent faces, I knew the path forward would be hard—but I would raise them to be better than their father.