For three years, my neighbor, Nelly, rarely left her house, and no one had ever seen her baby. I grew suspicious, especially since she had been heavily pregnant when she moved in. One day, I caught a glimpse of her child through the window—and froze.
I mentioned my concerns to my husband, Evan, but he brushed them off, dismissing Nelly as simply private. But I couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong. Then Mrs. Freddie, our other neighbor, tried to visit Nelly with a pie, only to be met with a slammed door.
A few days later, I found a letter for Nelly in my mailbox, and when I went to deliver it, I saw a little boy through her window. My heart stopped—the child had a birthmark identical to Evan’s. I collapsed on the steps in shock.
When I recovered, I confronted Nelly. She admitted that four years ago, she and Evan had a brief affair, and she had kept the child a secret. He had even moved her next door to keep an eye on things, making sure no one knew about Tommy. Evan had visited, pretending to be a friend, but Tommy thought he was just that.
Angry and heartbroken, I confronted Evan, who tried to justify his actions. But I had already made my decision: I filed for divorce. Evan’s parents gave me a share of their company in compensation.
Nelly and Tommy left soon after, and though I felt sympathy for them, I focused on healing. As I watched my sons, I promised myself I would raise them to be better men than their father ever was.
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