For three long years, my neighbor Nelly lived almost like a ghost. She rarely left her house, avoided everyone, and stayed behind drawn curtains. What unsettled me most was that when she first moved in, she was visibly pregnant — yet no one had ever seen her child.
I tried to brush it off. Maybe she was just private. But the feeling gnawed at me. Even my husband Evan dismissed my concerns, saying not everyone liked barbecues and block parties. Still, it was strange.
One evening, I thought I saw a small face peek from her window, but it was gone in a blink. Days later, when I tried to greet her in her garden, she bolted inside without a word. Mrs. Freddie, another neighbor, noticed too. She decided to “break the ice” with a pie — only to be met with a slammed door and sharp words.
Something wasn’t right.
Then, by pure accident, a piece of Nelly’s mail ended up in my box. As I approached her home to return it, I glanced through the window — and froze. A little boy, about three years old, stared back at me. He had a birthmark on his cheek… one I knew all too well.
It was identical to my husband Evan’s.
The truth came spilling out. Nelly admitted she’d met Evan years ago, had a fling, and became pregnant. He promised to support her — but only if she kept the child hidden and never spoke to me. He’d even moved her next door to keep her under his watch.
The betrayal cut deep. When Evan returned from a “business trip,” I handed him divorce papers — and had Nelly and the boy standing right there. His excuses didn’t matter.
The divorce was messy, but I walked away with custody of my boys and half of Evan’s family company. Nelly and her son, Tommy, moved away soon after.
The hurt will always be there, but I’ve chosen to focus on raising my sons to be honest, kind, and nothing like their father.