When the lawyer called, I thought it was a scam. I mean, who calls someone out of the blue and tells them they’ve inherited a farm? Especially someone like me. I never knew my parents. I grew up in the system—bounced from house to house like a cardboard box in the wind. So yeah, the idea that I had a biological father who not only existed but had left me land felt like some twisted prank. But after the second call, I caved. Curiosity beat out skepticism.
The farm was in a town I’d never heard of: Rockwell, Missouri. Middle of nowhere, looked like the kind of place where people still left their doors unlocked and kids played barefoot in yards. When I got there, the farmhouse was every bit as abandoned as I’d expected—peeling paint, overgrown yard, a porch that creaked with every hesitant step. But the barn?
The barn was immaculate. Fresh straw, shiny tools, the faint smell of animals that had clearly been cared for. A dozen eggs waited in a basket. Even the stalls were swept clean. It was eerie, like someone had just stepped out minutes before I arrived.
I spent the first few days cleaning up the house, sleeping in a cot in the living room because the bedrooms were dust havens. I found some leftover yellow paint in the garage and figured I’d at least give the fence a fresh coat. The color was brighter than I would’ve chosen, but something about it made the place feel alive again.
The next morning, I stood on the porch sipping lukewarm instant coffee and did a double-take.
Linda’s fence—the property next door—was freshly painted. Same shade of yellow. The exact same.
I hadn’t even met her yet. I’d only caught glimpses: an older woman with gray-streaked hair and a shawl draped around her like armor. She kept to herself, and I respected that. But the paint? That was no coincidence.
Maybe it was harmless. Maybe she just liked the color. So I let it go.
A few days later, I built a mailbox. I carved a little wooden bird to perch on top, just for fun. The kind of project that kept my hands busy and my mind quiet. I hammered it into the ground, proud of how it turned out.
Next morning: Linda had a new mailbox. Same design. Same bird. Right down to the crooked wing I hadn’t bothered to fix.
Okay, now it was weird.
I tried to laugh it off, but the pattern kept going. I planted tulips by the front steps—she planted tulips the next day. I started doing yoga in the yard early in the morning, trying to keep my head straight—and there she was, across the fence, stiffly mirroring my moves, like some strange shadow.
I didn’t know whether to be creeped out or flattered.
Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked over one evening, just after sunset, when the sky was bruised purple and the cicadas had started humming like a warning.
She answered the door almost immediately, as if she’d been expecting me. Her face was pale, eyes wide and glassy, like someone trying to remember a dream they didn’t want to forget.
“Why are you copying me?” I asked. Not accusatory. Just… tired. Confused.
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she stepped back and opened the door wider.
Her house was nothing like mine. It was warm, smelled faintly of lavender and dust. But what caught my eye was the table in the middle of the room—an old oak piece, scratched and sun-faded. On it sat a neat stack of letters, tied with twine.
All addressed to me.
The top one had my name in looping handwriting: Eli Morgan.
I felt my throat tighten. I hadn’t told anyone in town my name yet.
She gestured for me to sit. I didn’t.
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
“My husband,” she said quietly. “Well… he was your father.”
I stared at her.
“I don’t—what?”
She sat down slowly, like her bones were too heavy. “His name was Thomas. He was married before me. He had a son—he lost custody when the boy was two. He tried to find him later, but by then, the records were sealed. He wrote letters anyway. Dozens. He never stopped writing.”
I sat down without realizing it, the weight of her words settling into my spine.
“I found them after he died,” she said, voice cracking. “They were hidden in the attic. All of them addressed to you. I didn’t know what to do. I thought—if I could keep the place like he would’ve wanted, maybe you’d come. And when you did… I panicked. I wanted you to feel welcome, like someone cared. So I watched. Copied. I didn’t know how else to say it.”
My heart pounded in my ears. I reached for the top letter and untied the twine.
The handwriting was careful. Nervous. Like someone afraid of being forgotten.
“Dear Eli, today the apple trees bloomed. I wonder if you like apples. I wonder if you even know your name was supposed to be Elijah, after my grandfather…”
I read three letters that night. Then four more. Each one was a thread stitching together a father I never knew—a man who had messed up, yes, but who had never stopped trying.
Linda gave me space after that. No more copying. No more mirrored yoga poses. But sometimes, she’d wave from her porch, and I’d wave back. I kept reading a letter each night, learning the shape of a man through paper and ink.
By summer, the farm felt like mine. Not just legally, but emotionally. I painted the barn doors red, rebuilt the chicken coop, and finally got around to fixing the upstairs bedroom.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and turned the fields to gold, I found one last letter, buried in the bottom of the box. It wasn’t addressed to me, but to Linda.
“If he ever comes back… tell him I never stopped waiting. Tell him this place is his. Tell him I love him, and I hope he forgives me.”
I knocked on her door that night with a fresh pie and the letter in hand. We sat on her porch, eating in silence. She didn’t cry, but her eyes glistened in the light of the porch bulb.
“You did the right thing,” I told her.
She looked at me, and for the first time, smiled.
That fall, I hosted a harvest festival on the farm. The whole town showed up. Kids ran through hay mazes, old men judged the pie contest, and Linda brought her famous apple butter. We laughed. We danced. We remembered.
Sometimes family isn’t the one you start with. It’s the one that grows around you when you least expect it.
And sometimes, healing starts with a letter you never thought you’d get.
So tell me—if you found a stack of letters meant for you… would you read them?
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