When I inherited a farm from a man I’d never met, I thought it was my chance for peace. Quiet. A fresh start. But what I didn’t expect was a neighbor who mirrored my every move—or the truth that would change everything I thought I knew about myself.

I grew up in foster care, surrounded by kindness but always with an empty space inside. I never knew my biological parents, just a file marked confidential. By adulthood, I was surviving, jobless at thirty, when I received a call: I was the sole heir to a farm.

When I arrived, the house was worn, but the barn was alive. Then, my neighbor, Linda, started copying me—my fence, mailbox, and even yoga poses. Finally, I confronted her, and the truth came out: Linda was my mother.

She explained she was autistic and had given me up, but never stopped caring. She watched, waited, and tried to connect by mimicking me.

I ran, overwhelmed by the truth. But then, I found her letters—one for every year of my life, filled with love, apologies, and dreams for a daughter she never knew.

The next morning, I smiled at her across the yard. I was finally home.