I grew up in foster care, with no knowledge of my biological parents. Life felt like a series of blank pages—until a call told me my father had passed, leaving me a farm I’d never known.
The farmhouse was falling apart, but the land felt right. I threw myself into fixing it, planting flowers, painting fences, building a mailbox. That’s when my neighbor, Linda, started copying everything I did—even my yoga poses.
Finally, I confronted her. On her kitchen table were letters—dozens of them, all for me.
“Ellie, I don’t know how to say this… I am your mother,” one read.
She had loved me from afar, writing every year but never sending the letters. Copying me had been her way to connect. A faded photo confirmed it: she had been waiting for me all along.
Over time, we built a bond—tea, laughter, quiet conversations. That yellow fence, once a symbol of imitation, became a symbol of connection. I hadn’t just inherited a farm. I had inherited a mother. And for the first time, I wasn’t alone.
