I moved to a broken-down farm I had just inherited, thinking I’d finally found peace. But the day my neighbor copied my yellow fence, I didn’t realize it was only the start of something far deeper—and painfully personal.
I grew up in foster care. My foster family was kind—they packed my lunches, clapped at my school plays, and smiled proudly even when I stood in the back of the stage wearing a cardboard tree costume.
But love is more than warm meals and polite claps. Real love is knowing where you come from.
That part of me was a mystery. My papers said my biological parents wanted total confidentiality. No names, no birthdays, no stories. Just a blank space where something big should’ve been.
As a kid, I filled that blank with dreams. Maybe they were spies. Or rock stars. Or explorers lost in the jungle. Anything was better than believing they didn’t care.
By 15, I had already grown up too fast. I handed out flyers outside strip malls. At 16, I walked strangers’ dogs—half the time they couldn’t even remember my name. At 18, I was pouring coffee for grumpy regulars who gave me nickels as tips and advice I didn’t ask for.
One old man squinted at me once and said, “You should marry rich, sweetheart. You’ve got kind eyes.”
By 19, I was an “official” barista with a crooked name tag and a memory full of coffee orders. Then came more jobs. Caregiver. Mail carrier. Gardener. I even picked up roadkill on the highway once. Don’t ask. Really—don’t.
I knew how to survive, but I always felt cursed—like bad luck was part of my DNA.
At 27, things finally looked up. I landed my dream office job with a steady paycheck and weekends off. It felt like winning the lottery.
That same week, my health collapsed. Six months of tests and confused doctors later, one of them shrugged and said, “Could be stress.”
No kidding.
By 30, I was working as a nanny. Then another nanny accused me of stealing money. I didn’t, but I got fired anyway. I left with one suitcase, a few bills tucked in my pocket, and a stare so empty I barely recognized myself.
That’s when my phone rang.
“Ellie? It’s Jake, your father’s attorney,” a warm voice said.
“My who?”
“Your father, Henry. He passed away recently. You’ve been named the sole heir of his farm. About 30 kilometers outside of town. You can pick up the keys tomorrow.”
“A farm?” My voice cracked. “A father?”
“Biological,” Jake said gently. “I’ll explain more in person.”
I didn’t sleep a minute that night. My father. He’d left me something. For once in my life, something was mine.
When I drove up to the farm, I sat in my car staring at the tired-looking house, the wild yard, the wide fields. My thoughts buzzed with one question: Why did he leave it to me?
The house sagged with chipped paint and weeds growing tall, but the barn was spotless—fresh red paint, solid doors, swept floors. Inside, neat stacks of hay lined the walls. A basket of fresh eggs rested nearby. A big brown-and-white cow blinked calmly at me.
But the strangest part was the dog. He sat by the door, waiting. His fur was shaggy, his eyes warm.
“Come here, boy…”
He trotted over and licked my hand like we’d known each other for years.
“Okay, weird,” I muttered, glancing around. “Who’s been feeding you?”
My father had been gone a week. So who had kept everything alive?
I dropped my bag inside the dusty house. Sunlight filtered through, making dust swirl like snowflakes. A single photo hung on the wall—a man in his fifties with kind eyes. My chest ached just looking at him.
I didn’t know him. But I stayed.
Every morning, I woke up with purpose. Fixing the fence. Painting the porch. Collecting eggs without getting pecked. Somehow, my hands just knew what to do.
“Farmer mode: ON,” I joked to myself.
Then she appeared.
Linda. My neighbor.
At first, I thought she was shy. Then odd. And then… she started copying me.
One morning, I ate cereal by the window and froze. Yesterday, I had painted my fence bright yellow—the only paint in the shed. Today, Linda’s fence was yellow too.
“Maybe just a coincidence.”
But then came the mailbox. I had built mine from wood, added a little sloped roof and a carved bird. The next morning? Linda’s mailbox looked identical.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered into my coffee.
She never waved back when I tried to be friendly—just darted into her barn like I’d caught her stealing.
Then she copied my daisies. The same flowers, same curve, even the same little stones I had lined mine with.
And the yoga? That broke me.
One morning, I stretched on my mat in the yard. Out of the corner of my eye, there she was—in jeans and a floppy hat, wobbling through my exact poses.
I snapped. I stormed across the yard.
“Hey, Linda! We need to talk!”
The gate creaked open. She stood still, dark eyes wide, a little scared.
“Why are you copying everything I do? What do you want from me?!”
Silent, she nodded and motioned me inside.
That’s when I saw them.
Letters. Dozens, scattered on her table. All addressed to me.
“What are these?”
Her fingers trembled as she handed me one. I opened it.
My dear Ellie,
I don’t know how to talk to you. I don’t know if you’d even want to listen.
But I am… your mother. I lived near your father. We were never officially divorced, but we lived apart. When you were born, I was different.
I have autism. Life overwhelmed me. Your father thought a stable family should raise you. But I always knew about you. When he died, I took care of the farm. And when you came… I didn’t know how to approach you.
So I started doing what you did.
It was my way… of being close.
I stared at the page, then at her.
“You…?”
She nodded.
A photo slipped from another letter. A younger Linda, smiling, holding a toddler.
“Is this—?”
“That’s my daughter. Ellie.”
“Me?”
“My daughter,” she whispered.
I bolted. Ran past the daisies, past the yellow fence, and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.
Days passed. I shut myself inside. No reading. No chores. Just shadows crawling on the ceiling.
I thought knowing the truth would heal me. Instead, it shattered me.
Then one morning, I found a stack of letters tied with string on my porch. Thirty letters. One for every year of my life.
Each one was handwritten—careful script, little drawings, dried petals tucked inside. She had written to me every birthday, every imagined milestone.
I cried until my chest hurt. For the first time, I didn’t feel forgotten.
The next morning, my flowerbeds were watered. The animals fed. A jar of jam waited with a note tucked underneath:
Saved the milk in my fridge.
Love, Mom.
Mom.
I whispered the word aloud. For the first time, it didn’t feel imaginary.
I stepped outside barefoot into the morning sun. Linda was in her yard, struggling through yoga again, her hat slipping over her eyes. She looked clumsy, but she was trying.
“That’s the warrior pose,” I called. “I’m not a huge fan either.”
She froze, then turned, a shy smile tugging at her lips.
“You’re doing great,” I added. “But you’ll do better without the hat.”
She set it aside and tried again—wobbling, falling sideways. I laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days.
“Okay,” I said, walking closer. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll show you one pose, and you try it. But… no more mailbox copying.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
We stood together at the fence, awkward but not alone anymore.
Later, we drank tea in my kitchen. I pointed to the photo she’d saved.
“That’s you?”
She nodded.
“And my daughter Ellie. You and me.”
“I read all the letters,” I said softly. “Thank you, Mom.”
Her hands shook around her teacup. “Can I… try that pose tomorrow? The one with the leg in the air?”
I smiled. “Yeah. We’ll try it together.”
We laughed, and somehow, life felt colorful again.
And that yellow fence? It didn’t seem strange anymore. Maybe it was the beginning. Just like us.