For three years, my neighbor Nelly kept entirely to herself. She rarely stepped outside except to collect her mail or make a quick trip to the store. And despite being visibly pregnant when she moved in, no one had ever seen her baby — not once in all that time.
I tried to brush it off. “Pull yourself together, Martha,” I told myself one afternoon, gripping the edge of my kitchen sink. But the curiosity wouldn’t leave me.
That evening, I sat on the porch with my husband, Evan, watching our boys play soccer on the lawn. The sky was bathed in warm orange light, but my mind was elsewhere.
“Evan,” I began cautiously, “don’t you think there’s something… odd about Nelly?”
He looked at me with mild amusement. “You mean the neighbor? What about her?”
“She’s so withdrawn. I bumped into her at the supermarket the other day and she practically ran in the opposite direction.”
Evan chuckled, leaning back on the porch swing. “Some people just aren’t into small talk and neighborhood barbecues, Martha.”
“Maybe. But no one’s seen her baby in three years. That’s strange, right?”
He shrugged. “Maybe she’s just protective. Let it go, hon. Focus on our family.”
I forced a smile, but inside, the unease kept growing. As we stepped down to join the boys, I glanced toward Nelly’s house — just in time to see her curtains shift. I thought I caught the outline of a child’s face in the window, but when I blinked, it was gone.
A week later, I saw Nelly out in her garden. Seizing the moment, I called over the fence, “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Her head snapped up, eyes wide like a startled animal. Without a word, she bolted inside and slammed the door.
“Talking to yourself, dear?” came a voice from the next yard. Mrs. Freddie, another neighbor, was peeking over her fence.
I sighed. “I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s not right.”
She gave me a knowing look. “Leave it to me. I’ll find out.”
The next morning, I stood at my kitchen window and watched Mrs. Freddie march up to Nelly’s door carrying a homemade apple pie.
“This should be interesting,” I murmured.
She knocked, smiling warmly. The door cracked open just enough for Nelly’s voice to come through — sharp, defensive. “Go away!” The door slammed again.
Mrs. Freddie returned, cheeks flushed. “The nerve! Something’s definitely wrong in that house.”
Days later, a misdelivered letter for Nelly ended up in my mailbox. As I walked it over to her house, I caught movement in one of her windows. Curiosity got the better of me, and I glanced inside.
That’s when my heart nearly stopped.
A little boy, maybe three years old, stood there staring at me. His eyes were hauntingly familiar — and on his cheek was a birthmark I recognized instantly.
My legs gave out, and the world went black.
When I came to, neighbors were gathered around, Mrs. Freddie pressing a cool cloth to my forehead.
The moment I remembered what I’d seen, I ran to Nelly’s door and pounded on it.
“Nelly! It’s Martha. I know who your child’s father is! Open up!”
Gasps rose from the crowd as the door slowly opened. Nelly stood pale and trembling, the little boy peeking shyly from behind her. The birthmark was plain for all to see — identical to my husband Evan’s.
“How could you?” I choked out.
Nelly’s voice shook. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted it to happen this way.”
The boy tugged her skirt. “Mommy, who’s that lady?”
“I’m your father’s wife,” I said softly, my heart breaking.
Inside her living room, I sat across from Nelly while the boy — Tommy — played quietly in the corner.
“Tell me everything,” I demanded.
She took a deep breath. “Four years ago, I met Evan at a bar. It was just one night, but then I found out I was pregnant. When I told him, he panicked. Said he couldn’t risk losing his family. He offered to take care of me and the baby financially, but only if I kept it a secret.”
“By hiding away for three years?” I asked, incredulous.
She nodded. “It was his idea for me to move here, next door to you, so he could keep an eye on us. But I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone — especially you — or let Tommy play outside.”
I stared at her, devastated. “Does Tommy know who his father is?”
“No,” she said quietly. “He thinks Evan is just a friend who visits sometimes.”
All those “business trips.” All those late nights at work. It had been happening right under my nose.
When Evan came home from his latest trip, I was waiting.
“Hey, beautiful,” he greeted cheerfully. “Miss me?”
“Of course,” I said evenly. “I have a surprise for you.”
I gestured to an envelope on the table. “Open it.”
He pulled out divorce papers. Before he could speak, Nelly stepped into the room holding Tommy.
Evan’s face drained of color. “Martha, I can explain—”
“No. We’re done. You lied to me for years. You have another child, and you hid him right next door.”
The fallout was brutal. Evan’s parents, appalled by his actions, gave me half of their company in the divorce settlement. It secured my sons’ future, but it didn’t mend my heart.
Nelly and Tommy moved away soon after. Part of me pitied them, but the larger part of me needed to focus on healing.
One sunny afternoon, I called Jake and Ethan over as they played in the backyard. I pulled them into a tight embrace.
“Promise me something,” I said. “Always be honest, be kind, and treat people with respect. Can you do that?”
They nodded solemnly. In that moment, I knew I couldn’t change the past — but I could raise my boys to grow into better men than their father.