I moved to the broken-down farm I’d just inherited, thinking it would finally bring me peace. But the moment my neighbor copied my bright yellow fence, I had no idea that it was only the beginning of something much bigger—something personal, deep, and life-changing.
I grew up in foster care. My foster parents were good people—kind, patient, and steady. They packed my lunch, clapped at my school plays, and even smiled proudly when I stood in the back dressed as a cardboard tree.
But deep inside, I always knew love was more than warm meals and polite claps. Real love is knowing where you come from.
No one ever told me about my real parents. The papers said they wanted “complete confidentiality.” No names, no birthdays, no stories. Just a blank page where my family should’ve been.
I used to imagine they were spies, or maybe famous rock stars, or even lost explorers in the jungle. Anything was better than believing they just didn’t care.
By fifteen, I was already working—passing out flyers outside strip malls. At sixteen, I walked dogs for people who barely remembered my name. By eighteen, I was pouring coffee for grouchy customers who tipped me with nickels and advice I never asked for.
One old man once said, “You should marry rich, sweetheart. You’ve got kind eyes.”
By nineteen, I was a barista with a crooked name tag and a brain full of coffee orders. Then came more jobs—caregiver, mail carrier, gardener. For a short while, I even picked up roadkill off the highway.
Don’t ask. Seriously—don’t.
I knew how to survive, but it felt like bad luck was stitched into my DNA.
At twenty-seven, I finally landed my dream office job. A stable paycheck. Weekends off. I thought I’d won the lottery.
That same week, I got sick. Doctors poked and tested for six long months, only to shrug and say, “Could be stress.”
No kidding.
By thirty, I was working as a nanny. Then another nanny accused me of stealing money. I hadn’t, but they fired me anyway. I left with one suitcase, my tiny emergency fund hidden in my jacket, and a thousand-yard stare.
That’s when my phone rang.
“Ellie? This is Jake, your father’s attorney.”
I froze. “My who?”
“Your father, Henry. He passed away recently. You’ve been named the sole heir to his farm. About thirty kilometers out of town. You can pick up the keys tomorrow.”
A farm? I thought. A father?
“Biological,” he said gently. “I’ll explain more in person.”
I didn’t sleep at all that night. For the first time in my life, I belonged to something. Someone had left me a home.
When I pulled up to the farm, I just sat in my car, staring. The house was tired, the paint peeling, weeds everywhere. But the barn—oh, the barn—looked alive. Fresh red paint, strong doors, swept floors.
Inside, hay was stacked neatly. Eggs sat in a basket like someone had just collected them. A bucket of clean water sparkled in the corner. Chickens clucked softly. A big brown-and-white cow blinked at me.
And then there was the dog. He sat at the door like he’d been waiting. I crouched.
“Come here, boy…”
He ran to me, tail wagging, licking my hand as if we’d always known each other.
“Okay… weird,” I whispered, glancing around. “Who’s been feeding you?”
It had only been a week since my father died. So who had kept this place alive? Must’ve been the neighbors.
Inside the house, dust floated like lazy snowflakes in the sunlight. On the wall hung one photo—my father. His kind eyes pierced straight into me. My chest ached. I didn’t know him, but I stayed.
Days turned into weeks. I fixed the fence, painted the porch, and learned how to grab eggs without getting pecked. It felt natural—like something inside me had flipped a secret switch.
“Farmer mode ON,” I laughed to myself.
But just when I started to feel at home, she appeared.
Linda. My neighbor.
At first, I thought she was shy. Then odd. But soon, it became clear: she was copying me.
One morning, I froze mid-bite of cereal, staring out the window. I had painted my fence bright yellow the day before—the only paint can I found. Now Linda’s fence was yellow too. The exact same shade.
“Coincidence?” I muttered.
Then I built a wooden mailbox with a sloped roof and a tiny bird carved on top. I stood back proudly. “You nailed it, Ellie.”
The next morning? Linda had the same mailbox. Same roof. Same bird.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned, clutching my coffee.
I waved at her once, but she only scurried into her barn like a guilty thief.
When I planted daisies in a curve by my steps, the next day she had daisies—same curve, same little stones.
And then yoga. One sunny morning, I rolled out my mat on the grass. Stretching, breathing. When I glanced over, there she was—wobbling awkwardly in the same pose, wearing jeans and a floppy sunhat.
That was it. I’d had enough. I stormed to her gate.
“Linda! We need to talk!”
The gate creaked open. She stood there, dark eyes wide and almost fearful.
“Why are you copying everything I do? What do you want from me?!”
She didn’t answer. She just nodded and motioned me inside.
And that’s when I saw them—letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to me.
“What… are these?” I whispered.
Her hands trembled as she picked one up and passed it to me. I opened it.
My dear Ellie,
I don’t know how to speak 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 it would be best if another family raised you. But I always knew about you. I cared for the farm when he died. And when you arrived… I didn’t know how to reach you. So I copied you. It was my way of being close.
I stared at the words, my heart racing.
“You…?” I looked up at her.
She nodded slowly.
Another letter slid free, along with a photo. A younger Linda, holding a smiling toddler.
“Is this… me?”
She nodded again. “My daughter. You’re Ellie.”
My chest collapsed. My throat tightened. I turned and ran—back across the yard, past the daisies, past the mailbox—back to my empty house, where I broke down in tears.
Days blurred together. I stayed inside, barely moving, lost in a fog. Knowing the truth didn’t give me peace. It unraveled me.
Then, one morning, I opened my door. A thick stack of letters tied with string sat on my step. Thirty envelopes. One for every year of my life.
I read them all. Letters filled with drawings, dried petals, birthday wishes, love I never knew was mine. I cried over every word. For the first time, I didn’t feel abandoned.
The next day, I found my flowerbeds watered, the animals fed, the porch swept. A jar of jam sat on the step with a note tucked under it:
Saved the milk in my fridge.
Love, Mom
Mom.
That word finally felt real.
One morning, I stepped outside barefoot, as always. Linda was in her yard, attempting yoga again—hat slipping, arms wobbling. I smiled through tears and walked to the fence.
“That’s the warrior pose,” I called. “Not my favorite either.”
She froze, then gave me a small, shaky smile.
“You’ll do better without the hat,” I added.
She removed it, tried the tree pose, and fell over. I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll teach you one pose, but no more mailbox copying.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
And that was how it began—two clumsy women, standing under the same sky, finally finding their way to each other.
Later, we sat in my kitchen, sipping tea. I pointed at the photo from the letter.
“That’s you?”
She nodded.
“And me,” I whispered. “Your daughter.”
I touched her hand. “I’ve read all the letters. Thank you, Mom.”
Her fingers tightened around her cup. “Can I… try that pose tomorrow? The one with the leg in the air?”
I nodded, smiling. And we both laughed.
That yellow fence didn’t feel strange anymore. It felt like the start of something—just like us.
