For three years, my neighbor Nelly barely left her house, and no one had ever seen the child she was pregnant with when she moved in. One evening, as I watched her house, I saw a small face in the window. My heart stopped.

Nelly was a mystery—always avoiding people, especially me. When I tried speaking to her at the store, she bolted. Even my husband, Evan, dismissed my concerns. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Determined to get answers, my nosy neighbor, Mrs. Freddie, tried bringing Nelly a pie. Nelly slammed the door in her face. “Something’s not right,” Mrs. Freddie muttered. I agreed.

Days later, a letter for Nelly was mistakenly placed in my mailbox. As I approached her house to return it, curiosity got the better of me—I peeked through the window. A little boy stared back. His eyes… and the birthmark on his cheek were unmistakable.

I collapsed, the realization hitting me like a train. When I confronted Nelly, the truth unraveled—Evan was the father. He’d had an affair and paid Nelly to stay hidden, moving her in next door to keep her close. Tommy, their son, had lived in secrecy for three years.

When Evan returned from a “business trip,” I greeted him with divorce papers. Then Nelly stepped out with Tommy. Evan turned pale. “I can explain—”

“Save it. We’re done.”

In the aftermath, Evan’s parents, horrified by his betrayal, gave me half their company. Nelly and Tommy moved away, and I focused on raising my sons to be better than their father.

One day, I pulled them into a hug. “Promise me you’ll always be honest, kind, and respectful.”

They nodded. And for the first time in weeks, I felt a glimmer of hope.