I recently moved into my late mother’s house, and after settling down, I noticed my mail wasn’t arriving. When I checked the surveillance camera, I saw my neighbor stealing it. The next morning, I caught him red-handed, and shortly after, he suddenly disappeared. The letter I finally received revealed part of the mystery.
After my mother passed away, I moved into her house, a quaint place with a lovingly tended garden. Settling in, I unpacked boxes filled with memories, but the house felt empty without her.
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One morning, as I sipped my coffee, I noticed something odd. Days had passed without any mail. At first, I thought it was due to the address change, but weeks went by, and still nothing.
Determined to solve the mystery, I installed a small surveillance camera near the mailbox. It was a tiny, discreet device among the flowers, making me feel like a detective in one of my mother’s beloved mystery novels.
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***
The very next day, I eagerly reviewed the footage. My heart pounded as I watched the screen. Suddenly, there he was my new neighbor, casually stealing my mail.
My jaw dropped. He was a tall, grumpy-looking man who kept to himself. I had only seen him a few times, and he never seemed friendly.
But stealing mail? That was bizarre.
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I replayed the footage to be sure. There was no mistake. He had my letters in his hands, stuffing them into his coat pockets.
Why would he do that?
***
The next morning, I gathered my courage and walked over to Mr. Thompson’s house. I knocked on the door, and after a moment, it creaked open.
Mr. Thompson stood there, looking annoyed, his brows furrowed deeply.
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“What do you want?” he grumbled, not even trying to hide his irritation.
“Mr. Thompson, I need to talk to you about something important,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve noticed my mail has been missing lately.”
He narrowed his eyes.
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“Mail? Missing?” He shook his head. “You must be mistaken. Probably the post office’s fault.”
I frowned.
“Actually, I installed a camera near my mailbox.” I paused for effect. “It recorded you taking my mail.”
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Mr. Thompson’s face turned red.
“That’s ridiculous! Why would I take your mail?”
He also tried to laugh it off, but it sounded forced.
“Maybe it’s a mistake. You know, cameras can be tricky.”
I glanced past him and noticed how empty his house was. Bare walls, no furniture—just a few scattered boxes.
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“You don’t seem to have much here,” I said, changing the subject slightly. “Moving in or out?”
Mr. Thompson’s eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite place—fear, maybe.
“Just…downsizing,” he muttered.
“Downsizing, huh?” I echoed. “Doesn’t look like you ever moved in.”
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He sighed heavily. “Look, I don’t know what you think you saw, but I didn’t take your mail.”
His evasive answers and strange behavior only increased my suspicions. I knew he was hiding something, and I was ready to find out what.
As I walked back to my house, I resolved to catch him red-handed the next morning. This mystery was far from over.
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***
I woke up early the following day, determined to intercept the mailman. As I approached the mailbox, my heart beat faster.
I saw Mr. Thompson heading toward the mailbox, too. He was wearing his usual old coat and glasses, looking as grumpy as ever.
When he saw me standing there, holding a letter, he froze. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked like a deer caught in headlights.
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Then, without a word, he hurried back to his house, almost tripping over his own feet.
“Mr. Thompson!” I called out, but he ignored me, disappearing through his front door and slamming it shut behind him with a loud bang.
I looked down at the letter in my hands. It was a big white envelope addressed to my mother. With trembling fingers, I carefully opened it. Inside was a letter from my estranged father.
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“Dearest Clara,
I never tire of writing to you. You know I’ve sent hundreds of letters in my life, and many more are on automated delivery. They will reach you for the rest of your life.
I’m ashamed of how things turned out, but I beg you once more—tell our daughter, Diana, about me. I’ll never have the courage to speak to her after everything, but she must know that I love her.
I am sorry,
Jack”
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I read the letter again, my mind reeling. This was no ordinary stolen mail. This was a letter from the father I had never known, the man who had abandoned us years ago.
I stood there, the letter trembling in my hands.
Why was Mr. Thompson intercepting these letters? What was he hiding?
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The situation was far more complicated than I had ever imagined. I knew I had to confront Mr. Thompson again, but this time, I needed answers.
Without wasting any time, I walked over to his house.
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***
I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Pushing it open, I found myself inside his dimly lit living room. It was nearly empty, with just a few pieces of furniture scattered around.
Everything looked like it had been left in a hurry. Things were thrown on the floor, and papers were strewn across the table. A thick layer of dust covered everything, making it clear that he had been planning to leave for a while.
“Mr. Thompson?” I called out, but only silence answered me.
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Walking further into the house, I noticed a photo on the floor in a dark corner. Picking it up, I saw a picture of a woman and two children smiling happily.
The back of the photo had a worn address scribbled, almost fading with time. I squinted to make out the address. It was a place I didn’t recognize.
“This must be where he went,” I thought aloud.
Without hesitation, I put some snacks in my lunchbox at home, grabbed a bottle of water, and started my car.
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The drive felt like it took forever. The road stretched endlessly before me, my mind racing with questions.
Who was Mr. Thompson? And what did he have to do with my father?
***
I arrived at the address, a modest house with a well-tended garden. Children played in the yard. As I approached, they paused their game and looked at me curiously.
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Taking a deep breath, I walked up to the porch and knocked on the door. It opened to reveal a woman my age.
She bore a striking resemblance to me—same brown eyes, same wavy hair. It was like looking into a mirror.
“Hello,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “I’m Diana.”
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She frowned slightly but extended her hand.
“Hi, I’m Emily. Can I help you with something?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Thompson,” I replied.
“He’s my father,” Emily said, her frown deepening. “Why are you looking for him?”
Before I could answer, Mr. Thompson appeared behind her. His eyes widened in shock when he saw me.
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“Diana,” he whispered, his face turning pale.
“Dad, who is she?” Emily asked, looking between us.
Mr. Thompson seemed to struggle for words.
“I… I can explain,” he stammered, glancing nervously between Emily and me.
I took a deep breath, holding out the letter I had found.
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“I found this letter addressed to my mother. It’s from my father, and your father tried to steal it.”
Emily took the letter, her hands trembling. She read it quickly, her eyes widening with every word.
“What is this?” she demanded, looking up at Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson’s face was ashen. “Emily, Diana, there’s something I need to tell you,” he began, but Emily cut him off.
The children stopped playing and watched us from the yard.
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Mr. Thompson took a step forward, his eyes pleading.
“Diana, you are my daughter. Emily, Diana is your sister.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with shock. Emily stared at her father, her mouth opening and closing in disbelief.
“What?” she whispered.
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Mr. Thompson nodded, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Diana is my daughter from a relationship long before I met your mother. I left her mother before she was born and didn’t know about her until years later.”
I felt a rush of emotions—anger, confusion, and a strange sense of relief.
“You knew about me all this time?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Mr. Thompson, or rather Jack, looked at me with tear-filled eyes.
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“Yes, Diana. I found out about you when you started school. I set up an automated mailing system to send letters to your mother out of guilt. But after she died and you moved into her house, I got scared. I rented the house next door to keep an eye on you, to protect the secret.”
Emily took a step back, her face pale. “So you’ve been spying on her? Stealing her mail? Why, Dad?”
“I know it was wrong. I didn’t want to lose everything. I thought I was protecting you, protecting us all.”
I sat on the grass, trying to process everything.
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“I grew up without a father, and now I find out he was living next door all this time,” my voice trembled. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Jack sighed deeply. “I was ashamed. I thought you would hate me. I thought it was better to stay hidden.”
Emily finally said, “This is a lot to take in,” she said softly, her voice trembling but determined. “But we can figure this out together.”
I looked at her, then at Jack. “I don’t know how to feel right now, but I know one thing—I want to try. I want to understand everything and see where we go from here.”
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Jack’s face softened with relief.
“Thank you, Diana. I want to be a part of your life if you’ll let me.”
As we stood there, Emily smiled through her tears.
“Let’s start by introducing you to the rest of the family,” she said, gesturing towards the children playing in the backyard.
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Emily introduced me to her kids, my nieces and nephews, and I couldn’t help but smile at their innocent curiosity.
“Hi, I’m Diana,” I said, kneeling to their level. “I’m your aunt.”
They looked at each other, then back at me.
“Cool,” one of them said, and the others nodded in agreement.
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Emily laughed, the tension easing slightly.
“How about we make some barbecue and get to know each other better?” she suggested.
“Sounds great,” I replied, feeling a warmth spread through me.
As we gathered around the grill, preparing food and sharing stories, I felt a sense of belonging I hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t going to be easy, but for the first time, I felt like I had a family willing to walk this road with me.
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The smell of grilling meat and the sound of children’s laughter filled the air, blending with our conversations.
Jack, or rather Dad, was by my side, helping with the barbecue and trying to bridge the gap of years lost. Emily’s kids ran around, their laughter a balm to my soul.
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