I waited until she went inside before closing my door.
Tom still hadn’t looked up.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said flatly, like he’d been waiting to pass judgment. “You’re enabling her. People need to learn to stand on their own.”
I hung my purse on its hook and didn’t argue. With Tom, compassion was always seen as weakness. Love was something you rationed. Empathy, in his eyes, was how people got taken advantage of.
I didn’t agree, but I’d learned that arguing with him never brought peace. It just drained me.
Over the following weeks, I watched Sarah quietly from a distance. I noticed her parents visiting. I saw her leaving for doctor appointments. Her curtains stayed closed most of the time, and I respected that. I texted once to offer a casserole. She thanked me but said she was managing.
The quiet from next door felt fragile, like someone balancing on a thin line. Maybe she was finding her footing. Maybe she was just surviving.
Then one cool October evening, Tom burst through our front door like something terrible had happened.
He was pale. Breathing hard. One hand pressed to his chest.
“Anna!” he shouted. “Look outside! There’s a moving truck. And… you need to see what they’re unloading.”
I rushed to the window, expecting chaos.
A large moving van sat parked in front of Sarah’s house.
But that wasn’t what made my stomach twist.
Next to it was a sleek black SUV. Glossy. Expensive. The kind of vehicle you see outside luxury hotels, not in a sleepy neighborhood where people argue about trash pickup days.
And the movers weren’t hauling junk.
They were carrying tall, professional crates. Carefully wrapped furniture. Boxes packed with precision. I watched as two men carried in a gleaming white crib that looked like it belonged in a high-end catalogue.
Then Sarah stepped onto her porch.
She looked radiant.
Not fragile. Not shaken. Calm. Grounded. Confident. Dressed in elegant maternity clothes, hair neatly styled, posture relaxed. She looked like someone who felt safe.
Tom pressed his hands against the glass.
“What is happening?” he whispered. “That’s not her stuff.”
A woman in a sharp business suit moved with quiet authority, directing the movers. Then she turned and walked straight toward our house.
The doorbell rang.
I opened the door.
“Hello,” she said politely. “I’m Eleanor Vance. Sarah’s estate manager. I apologize for the disruption.”
Tom choked. “Estate… manager?”
Eleanor smiled faintly and handed me a thick envelope. My name was written on it in elegant handwriting.
“She asked me to deliver this personally,” Eleanor said. “A few years ago, Sarah inherited a significant sum and a substantial interest in a successful tech firm from a distant relative. Her great-aunt.”
My mind struggled to catch up.
Eleanor continued calmly. “The inheritance came with conditions. Sarah couldn’t access the funds until she either turned thirty or had her first child, whichever came later. She also had to live modestly and anonymously for the final year to assess her character. Her thirty-first birthday was last week.”
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