Something about my neighbor Nelly always felt off. In three years, I’d only seen her outside delivering mail or driving off, and her baby—born after she moved in heavily pregnant—had never been seen.
One evening, watching my kids play with my husband Evan, I voiced my unease. Evan brushed it off—maybe she’s just private. But when Nelly fled our greeting, my suspicions only grew.
Later, Mrs. Freddie tried winning Nelly over with pie. Nelly slammed the door in her face. Now I knew something wasn’t right.
Then I found Nelly’s mail by mistake. Peeking inside, I saw a small face with a birthmark exactly like my husband’s. My scream echoed through the neighborhood.
Neighbors came running. In Nelly’s house stood the little boy—the spitting image of Evan. Confronted, Nelly confessed: she’d had a one-night fling with Evan four years ago and moved next door under his suggestion so no one would know. She couldn’t speak or show the child.
My heart shattered. Evan had lied to me for years. Divorce papers followed, and in the fallout I received half of his parents’ company for our boys’ security. Nelly and her son moved away soon after.
Watching my sons later, I vowed to teach them honesty and kindness—lessons born from betrayal, but grounded in hope.