I moved to an old, rundown farm I had inherited, hoping for some peace and solitude. But when my neighbor painted their fence yellow to match mine, I had no idea it was just the start of something much deeper and more personal.
I grew up in a foster home that did its best. They were kind and patient, always making sure I had a packed lunch and cheering me on at school plays, even when I was stuck in the back wearing a cardboard tree costume.
But real love is more than just warm meals and polite applause. It’s… understanding where you truly come from.
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No one ever told me anything about my real parents. The documents said they requested total confidentiality. No names. No birthdates. No details. Just an empty space where something significant should’ve been.
I used to imagine they were spies. Or famous musicians. Or stranded somewhere in the wild. Anything felt better than the idea that they simply didn’t care.
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I matured quickly. By 15, I was passing out flyers outside strip malls.
At 16, I walked dogs for people who hardly even remembered my name. By 18, I served coffee to grumpy regulars who tipped in nickels and offered unsolicited life advice.
“You should marry someone wealthy, sweetheart. You’ve got kind eyes.”
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By the time I was 19, I was an official barista, sporting a crooked name tag and memorized drink orders. Then came more jobs. Caregiver. Mail carrier. Gardener. For a stretch, I even collected roadkill from the highway.
Don’t ask. Seriously, don’t.
I learned how to survive. But it always felt like bad luck was woven into my DNA.
By 27, I finally landed my dream office job. A steady paycheck. Weekends off. It felt like I had won the lottery.
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That same day, I fell ill. Six months of tests and doctors shrugging their shoulders.
“Probably stress.”
No kidding.
At 30, I found myself working as a nanny. The other nanny accused me of stealing money from the family. I didn’t, but they fired me anyway. Standing outside the building with just one suitcase, my emergency fund crammed into my jacket pocket, I stared ahead, lost in thought.
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Then my phone buzzed.
“Ellie? It’s Jake, your father’s lawyer,” a calm voice said.
“My who?”
“Your father, Henry. He passed away recently. You’ve been named the sole heir to his farm. It’s about 30 kilometers from town. You can pick up the keys tomorrow.”
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“A farm?” I echoed. “A father?”
“Biological,” he said softly. “I’ll tell you more in person.”
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I had a father. He left me a place to call home. For the first time in my life, something was truly mine.
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When I arrived at the farm, I sat in the car for a moment, gazing at the house, the fields, the stillness. One question buzzed in my mind like an annoying fly that wouldn’t leave me alone.
Why did he leave it to me?
The house seemed worn. Chipped paint flaked off the walls, and weeds overtook the yard. But then I noticed the barn. It was spotless. The red paint was vibrant, and the doors were strong and sturdy. It stood tall with pride.
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Intrigued, I stepped inside. The first thing that hit me was the smell of hay. The floor was spotless, and neat stacks of hay were neatly arranged along the walls.
A basket of fresh eggs sat in a row, as if someone had just gathered them. In the corner, a bucket of water shimmered, so clean it almost begged to be drunk.
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And then there were the animals. The chickens clucked softly, pecking at the straw. A large brown-and-white cow stood quietly, blinking at me.
The dog was the oddest part. He sat by the door, like he had been waiting for me. His fur looked a bit untidy. I crouched down.
“Come here, boy…”
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He trotted over and licked my hand, as if we’d been friends for years.
“Okay, this is strange,” I murmured, looking around. “Who’s been feeding you?”
It had been a week since my father’s passing.
So… who’s been looking after all this? Had to be the neighbors.
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I dropped my bag by the door and scanned the inside of the house. Dust drifted through the sunlight, like slow-moving snowflakes.
On the wall, there was just one photo. A man in his 50s. His eyes were kind. My chest tightened just looking at him—my father.
I sat down on the floor, taking in the room. I didn’t know that man. Didn’t know that farm. But for some reason, I wasn’t afraid. I stayed.
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Each morning, I woke up with a sense of purpose. I mended the fence, painted the porch, and figured out how to collect eggs without getting pecked.
I didn’t know how, but somehow, I just knew what needed to be done. It was as if something inside me had shifted—a hidden switch flipped.
“Farmer Mode: Activated.”
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But just as I was starting to feel comfortable, she appeared.
Linda. My neighbor.
At first, I assumed she was just shy. Then, I figured she was a bit quirky.
But then, she started mimicking everything I did. That’s when things took a turn for the strange.
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“What the…?”
I froze by the kitchen window, a spoonful of cereal paused in midair.
Just yesterday, I had painted my fence bright yellow. It was the only can of paint I could find in the shed, and I was trying to save money. The paint stunk, but the fence looked cheerful.
And then, looking across the property line, I saw Linda’s fence. It was also yellow, the exact same shade.
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“Probably just a coincidence.”
The next day, I built a new mailbox. I was proud of it—wooden, with a tiny sloped roof and a carved bird perched on top. It took me all afternoon and three Band-Aids.
Stepping back, I grinned and said to myself, “You nailed it, Ellie.”
The next morning, I stepped outside… and there it was. Linda’s mailbox. Same shape. Same roof. The exact same bird.
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“You’ve got to be joking,” I muttered, gripping my coffee cup.
I made an effort to be polite and waved at Linda when I spotted her outside. She didn’t wave back—just hurried into her barn, like I’d caught her doing something wrong.
But then came the daisies. They were my favorite. I planted them in a gentle curve near my front steps.
The next morning?
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Linda had the same daisies. The same curve. The same little row of stones around them. I stepped outside and just stared at her yard.
Is she watching me? Copying me on purpose?
I tried to shake it off until yoga.
One sunny morning, I unrolled my mat on the grass and began my usual routine. Just some stretches to loosen up.
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When I glanced over, Linda was swaying in the exact same pose as me.
She was dressed in jeans and a floppy hat. She was doing it again.
That was it. My patience had run out. I stormed across the yard and knocked on her wooden gate.
“Hey, Linda! We need to talk!”
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The door creaked open, slowly. She stood there, motionless, quiet. Her dark eyes locked with mine—wide, intense, a little fearful.
“Why are you copying everything I do? What do you want from me?!”
She didn’t respond. She just stepped back, nodding ever so slightly.
I followed her inside. That’s when I saw them.
Letters. Dozens of them. Piled on the table. All addressed to me.
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“What are these?”
She picked up the top letter and handed it to me, her fingers trembling. I unfolded the paper.
“My dear Ellie,
I don’t know how to approach this. I’m not sure if you even want to hear it.
But I am… your mother. I lived near your father. We were never legally divorced, but we were separated. When you were born, I was… not myself.
I have autism.”
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Life became too much. Your father thought it would be better for you to be raised by a stable, loving family. But I always knew about you. And when he passed, I took care of the farm. Then you showed up…
I wasn’t sure how to approach you or what to say.
So, I began doing what you did.
It was my way… of staying close.
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I read the letter again. And again.
“You…” I looked up at her.
She stood there, motionless, barely breathing. I picked up another letter—this one older. A photo slipped out. A young Linda, holding a toddler, both of them smiling.
“Is this…?”
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“That’s my daughter. Ellie.”
“Me?”
“My daughter,” she said again, quietly. “You’re Ellie.”
For some reason… I don’t know why, but… I turned and ran. Back to my yard. Past the daisies. Past the mailbox.
And I cried. I didn’t know how to make things right, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to.
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A few days went by.
I stayed indoors. No reading, no coffee, no watering the daisies. I just lay on the couch, watching shadows shift across the ceiling, hoping they’d form words that made sense.
I wasn’t sick. Not in a way a doctor could help. It was the kind of ache that fills your chest and makes everything feel… light and heavy all at once.
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I thought the truth would bring me peace.
But instead of closure, I found a mother. And strangely, that unraveled me more than all the years of wondering.
Then, one morning, I opened the front door. A stack of letters—thick envelopes bound with string—lay silently on my doorstep.
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I carried them inside, my hands shaking. Each envelope was labeled with a year. One letter for every year of my life. Thirty letters.
I started with the first. Then the second. Then I read them all.
Each was handwritten in neat, careful script. Some had drawings, others had dried petals tucked inside. Each one overflowed with emotion—wonder, sorrow… and love.
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So much tenderness.
Every year, Linda reached out—on my birthdays, for school milestones I never shared, even for college she never knew I had left behind. She pictured it all, casting her hopes into silence.
I wept over every letter. Uncontrollably. Because for the first time ever, I felt truly remembered.
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By the third sunrise, I pulled the door open once more.
The garden rows were moist. The pets had full bowls. The ground looked recently cleaned.
A handwritten message was slipped beneath a jar of preserves sitting on the step.
“Kept the milk cold at my place.
With love, Mom”
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Mom.
I clutched the note, eyes fixed on that single word.
For once, it didn’t seem like a fantasy. I had a mother—reserved, intricate, a bit unsure—who expressed affection not in conversation but through small acts and written words.
And it hit me… maybe she wasn’t the one who let me down. Maybe it was just the circumstances. Life unraveled before either of us knew how to mend it.
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Dad’s remorse lingers with me now: in the walls of this house, in the ground beneath my feet, in the hush he left behind. But I hold the pen to change the final chapter.
In that moment, I chose. I walked into the new day’s light. Barefoot, as I always did.
Linda stood in her garden, swaying through a half-baked yoga stretch, her wide-brimmed hat slipping toward her nose. But she hadn’t quit—she was still in the fight.
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My chest tightened. I made my way to the fence.
“That’s… warrior pose, right? Not really my favorite either.”
She paused, then turned with hesitation. A soft, uncertain smile played at her mouth.
“You’re doing awesome,” I said. “But I bet you’d nail it without the hat.”
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She took off her hat, smoothed the brim with her fingers, and placed it carefully on the grass. Then, she tried the tree pose. She wobbled and toppled sideways.
I actually laughed—for the first time in days.
“Alright,” I said, stepping closer to the fence. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll show you one pose, and you give it a try. But… no more copying my mailbox.”
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“Okay,” she whispered.
“You’ll do better if you relax your fingers.”
And there we stood—both of us—finally on the same side of the yard, beneath the same sky. A little awkward. A little uncertain. But no longer alone.
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Later, we made tea at my place. I pointed to the photo from one of the letters.
“This picture… that’s you?”
She nodded.
“And my daughter Ellie. That’s the two of us.”
“I’ve read every letter. Thank you, Mom.”
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She held her teacup tightly with both hands.
“Could I… try that pose tomorrow? The one where your leg’s up?”
I nodded. We both smiled. Then burst into laughter. And somehow, it felt like life was starting to glow again.
And you know what?
That yellow fence didn’t look so strange anymore. Maybe it was the start. Just like us.
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