Something always felt off about my neighbor, Nelly. In three years, I’d rarely seen her outside, and no one had ever seen her baby. She’d been heavily pregnant when she moved in, yet the child remained unseen.
One evening, I mentioned Nelly’s isolation to my husband, Evan, but he dismissed my concerns. Still, the nagging feeling persisted. When Nelly bolted inside after I tried to greet her, Mrs. Freddie promised to get to the bottom of it.
The next day, Mrs. Freddie visited Nelly with an apple pie, but Nelly slammed the door in her face. Something was definitely wrong.
A few days later, I found a letter for Nelly in my mailbox and decided to investigate. Looking through the window, I saw a little boy with a familiar birthmark — identical to Evan’s. My heart sank.
I collapsed, but when I recovered, I rushed to Nelly’s door. The door opened, and I saw the child again — the same birthmark. It was Evan’s son.
Nelly confessed that Evan had fathered her child years ago. She’d kept it a secret, hiding away in the neighborhood to keep her identity safe. Evan had visited, pretending to be just a friend to the boy.
That evening, I confronted Evan when he returned from a business trip, slamming divorce papers on the table. As Nelly and her son appeared, Evan’s guilt was evident. He tried to explain, but I was done.
The divorce was finalized, and Evan’s parents gave me half of their company. Nelly and Tommy moved away, but I focused on healing and raising my boys with values Evan never upheld.
I hugged my sons tightly, determined to raise them to be better men than their father ever was.
