I thought moving to a broken-down farm I had just inherited would finally give me peace. But when my neighbor copied my yellow fence, I had no idea it was only the beginning of something far more personal—something that would change my life forever.
I grew up in a foster family. They were kind, patient people who tried their best. They packed my lunches, clapped at my school plays, even when all I did was stand in the back dressed as a cardboard tree.
But real love… it’s not just warm meals and polite applause. It’s something deeper. It’s knowing where you come from.
And that was the one thing I never had.
The papers about my adoption were blank in all the places that mattered. No names. No birthdays. No stories. Just empty space where my parents should’ve been.
As a kid, I used to imagine they were something amazing. Maybe spies. Or rock stars. Or lost explorers who couldn’t find their way back. Anything was better than the idea that they didn’t want me.
By fifteen, I was already hustling—handing out flyers outside strip malls. At sixteen, I walked dogs for strangers who barely remembered my name. At eighteen, I poured coffee for grumpy regulars who gave me nickels as tips and advice I didn’t want.
One old man winked at me once and said, “You should marry rich, sweetheart. You’ve got kind eyes.”
By nineteen, I was a full-time barista with a crooked name tag and burned fingers from too many hot lattes. Then came other jobs. Caregiver. Mail carrier. Gardener. I even had a job where I picked up roadkill off the highway.
Don’t ask. No, really—don’t.
I knew how to survive. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the feeling that bad luck was in my blood.
At twenty-seven, I finally got a dream office job. A desk. A stable paycheck. Weekends off. It felt like winning the lottery.
But the same week, I got sick. Six months of endless doctor visits and vague answers.
“Could be stress,” one doctor shrugged.
Yeah. Thanks for nothing.
By thirty, I was a nanny. Until another nanny accused me of stealing from the family. I didn’t, but they fired me anyway. I stood outside with my suitcase, my emergency fund stuffed in my jacket pocket, and a hollow stare.
That’s when my phone rang.
“Ellie? It’s Jake, your father’s attorney,” a warm voice said.
“My who?” I asked, frozen.
“Your father. Henry. He passed away. You’ve been named the sole heir of his farm. About thirty kilometers out of town. You can pick up the keys tomorrow.”
I blinked. “A farm? A father?”
“Biological,” he said softly. “I’ll explain more when we meet.”
That night, I didn’t sleep at all. For the first time in my life, something belonged to me. A house. A farm. A piece of family I never thought I’d have.
When I pulled up the next day, the house looked like it was holding its breath. The paint peeled off the walls, and weeds had claimed the yard. But then I saw the barn. It was neat, clean, freshly painted red. It stood proud, like someone had loved it.
Inside, the air smelled of hay. Stacks lined the walls. Fresh eggs sat in a basket. A cow blinked at me calmly, and chickens scratched the straw.
Then there was the dog. Sitting by the door as if he had been waiting just for me. His fur was shaggy, his eyes gentle.
“Come here, boy,” I whispered.
He padded over and licked my hand like we were old friends.
“Okay, weird,” I muttered, glancing around. “Who’s been feeding you?”
My father had only been gone a week. So… who was taking care of the animals? The neighbors, maybe.
In the house, I found just one photo on the wall. A man in his fifties. His eyes were kind, warm. My chest ached looking at him. My father.
I didn’t know him, didn’t know the farm, but for the first time in years—I wasn’t scared.
I stayed.
Each morning, I worked. I painted the porch, mended fences, collected eggs without too many pecks. Somehow, I knew what to do, like something inside me had switched on.
“Farmer Mode: ON,” I joked to myself.
And then she showed up. Linda.
At first, she seemed shy. Then a little odd. Then… she started copying me.
It began with the fence.
One morning, spoon halfway to my mouth, I froze. Across the property line, Linda’s fence was painted the exact same bright yellow as mine.
“Maybe just a coincidence,” I muttered.
Then the mailbox. I had spent hours building mine—a little wooden house with a roof and a carved bird on top. The very next morning, Linda had an identical one.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned, gripping my coffee cup.
Then the daisies. My favorite flower. I planted them in a perfect curve by my steps. The next day—Linda’s yard bloomed with the same daisies, the same curve, even the same border of stones.
It got weirder.
One morning, I rolled out a yoga mat and stretched on the grass. I looked over—and there she was, wobbling through the exact same pose, wearing jeans and a floppy hat.
That was it. I stormed to her gate.
“Linda! We need to talk!” I shouted.
The gate creaked open. She stood there, pale, eyes wide.
“Why are you copying everything I do? What do you want from me?!”
She didn’t speak. Just nodded and led me inside.
On the table were dozens of letters. All addressed to me.
I picked one up. Her hands shook as she passed it over.
“My dear Ellie,
I don’t know how to talk to you. But I am… your mother. When you were born, life was too much for me. I have autism. Your father thought it was best if a stable family raised you. But I always knew about you. When Henry died, I cared for the farm until you came. I didn’t know how to speak to you… so I copied you. It was my way of being close.”
I stared at the page, then at her.
“You’re… my mother?” I whispered.
She nodded. “My daughter. Ellie.”
A photo slipped from one of the envelopes. A young Linda holding a toddler. Both smiling.
“That’s… me?”
She swallowed. “That’s us.”
I couldn’t handle it. I ran back home, past the daisies, past the yellow fence, tears spilling faster than I could wipe them away.
Days passed. I stayed inside, hollow. I thought knowing the truth would heal me. Instead, it shattered me.
Then one morning, I found a bundle of envelopes on my porch. Thirty letters. One for every year of my life.
I read them all. Each one full of love, sorrow, and hope. Dried petals tucked between pages. Drawings. Words I had needed my whole life.
For the first time, I didn’t feel forgotten.
On the third day, I found the flowerbeds watered, animals fed, a jar of jam on my porch. A note was tucked underneath:
“Saved the milk in my fridge.
Love, Mom.”
Mom.
That word. For the first time—it felt real.
I saw her outside the next morning, wobbling in a yoga pose, her sunhat sliding down. My chest ached, but something inside me softened.
“That’s the warrior pose,” I called. “Not my favorite either.”
She froze, then looked at me. A shy smile tugged at her lips.
“You’re doing great,” I added. “But maybe ditch the hat.”
She pulled it off, tried again, wobbled, then fell over. I laughed—really laughed.
“Okay,” I said, walking closer. “Deal? I’ll teach you one pose. But no more mailbox copying.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
Later, we sat drinking tea in my kitchen. I pointed at the old photo.
“That’s you? With me?”
She nodded. “My Ellie.”
“I’ve read your letters,” I whispered. “Thank you… Mom.”
Her hands trembled as she clutched her cup.
“Can we try that pose tomorrow? The one with the leg in the air?”
I smiled. “Yeah. We can.”
We laughed, awkward but real. And in that moment, life felt brighter again.
And you know what? That yellow fence? It didn’t feel strange anymore. It felt like a beginning. Just like us.