For three years, my neighbor Nelly lived behind closed doors, rarely seen. She moved in pregnant, but no one had ever seen her baby. Unease gnawed at me, especially when I caught glimpses of her peering through her curtains.

One evening, while watching my kids play, I asked my husband, Evan, if he found her isolation odd. He shrugged it off, but I couldn’t shake my concern. A week later, I spotted Nelly in her garden and tried to chat. She bolted inside, and Mrs. Freddie, our other neighbor, promised to investigate.

The next day, Mrs. Freddie approached Nelly with a pie but was met with rejection. Our suspicions deepened.

A few days later, I found a letter meant for Nelly. I approached her house and peeked through the window. My heart stopped—there stood a little boy, his cheek marked with a familiar birthmark.

I screamed, collapsing on the steps. When I regained consciousness, I rushed to Nelly’s door, yelling that I knew the father of her child. The door opened, revealing Nelly and the boy, Tommy. Gasps echoed as neighbors recognized the birthmark—identical to Evan’s.

Nelly confessed their affair; she had kept Tommy a secret. Devastated, I confronted Evan when he returned from a trip. I served him divorce papers, revealing Nelly and Tommy. He begged for forgiveness, but it was too late.

As Nelly and Tommy moved away, I vowed to raise my boys to be better than their father.