For three years, my neighbor Nelly lived in near-total isolation. When she first moved in, she was visibly pregnant, yet no one in the neighborhood ever saw her child. Her behavior was strange — quick errands, minimal conversation, and an ever-present sense of secrecy. The mystery gnawed at me, especially since she lived right next door.

One day, while returning a misdelivered letter, I caught a glimpse through Nelly’s window. A little boy stared back at me, his expression calm — but what stunned me was the birthmark on his cheek. It matched one I knew all too well: my husband Evan’s. The shock dropped me to the ground. Everything blurred until neighbors gathered around, helping me regain consciousness.

Fueled by heartbreak and anger, I confronted Nelly. She broke down and confessed — four years ago, she had a brief affair with Evan, which led to her pregnancy. He insisted on keeping the child secret, even buying her the house next door to monitor the situation. My world collapsed. Evan had built an entire second life within walking distance of ours.

When Evan returned from a “business trip,” I handed him divorce papers. Nelly entered, holding Tommy — his son. Evan panicked, but I had no interest in hearing excuses. He betrayed our family, and there was no fixing that.

After the divorce, Evan’s parents, ashamed of their son, gave me half their company to support my boys. Nelly moved away quietly with Tommy.

Though broken, I was determined. I would raise my sons to be honest, compassionate men — everything their father wasn’t.