I moved to the farm expecting peace. Solitude. A reset. What I got instead was a yellow fence, a neighbor who copied everything I did, and a truth that knocked the wind out of me.
Growing up, I had a foster family that tried. They packed my lunches, clapped at every school play, even the one where I stood in the back dressed as a cardboard tree. They were kind. But love—real, rooted love—felt like something I never got to unpack. No stories. No names. My birth parents had signed away all rights to be remembered.
I used to lie awake wondering if they were spies or artists or lost in the Amazon. Anything was better than believing they didn’t want me.
By fifteen, I was handing out flyers. Sixteen, walking dogs. Eighteen, brewing coffee and hearing life advice from customers who thought a fifty-cent tip made them philosophers. By twenty-seven, I finally got the office job. The kind with vacation days and email signatures. The same week, I got sick. Tests. More tests. Shrugs from doctors.
“Probably stress,” they said.
At thirty, I became a nanny. I was good at it—until another nanny accused me of stealing. I didn’t. But I got fired anyway. That’s when I was standing on a city sidewalk with nothing but a suitcase and a jacket full of emergency cash when my phone rang.
“Ellie?” the voice said. “This is Jake. I’m calling about your father.”
“My who?”
“Your father, Henry. He passed recently. He left you his farm.”
I thought it was a prank. But it wasn’t.
The next day, I had keys in hand and a destination: a farm thirty kilometers from the city. The drive there was quiet. I stared at the horizon, wondering what kind of man leaves behind a house for a daughter he’s never met.
The place was old but not abandoned. The house sagged a bit, but the barn stood firm, newly painted red. Inside, the air smelled of hay and something sweeter. The animals were fed. The floor was swept. A dog greeted me like I’d been gone five minutes, not three decades.
Someone had been caring for all this. I assumed a kind neighbor.
I made the place mine, little by little. Painted the porch. Collected eggs without bleeding. Found a leftover can of yellow paint in the shed and gave the fence a cheerful coat. It felt like I was building something out of nothing. For the first time in years, I wasn’t just surviving. I was… becoming.
Then my neighbor copied my fence. Same shade of yellow, right down to the brushstroke.
Weird. But whatever.
Then she copied my mailbox. The daisies I planted. Even my yoga poses, though she wobbled more than I did.
“Okay, no,” I muttered one morning after spotting her in warrior pose, floppy sunhat drooping over her eyes. I marched over.
She didn’t speak. Just opened her gate and led me into her house.
Letters. Dozens. All addressed to me.
She handed me the top one. Her hand trembled.
“My dear Ellie,” it began. “I don’t know how to talk to you. But I am your mother.”
She explained everything. That she lived nearby. That she had autism. That when I was born, she wasn’t ready—but always loved me. My father raised me apart, thinking it was best. She knew I was coming back when he passed, but didn’t know how to speak to me. So instead… she copied me. Just to be close.
I read the letter once. Then again. My eyes burned. I looked up at her. She looked terrified.
A photo slipped from another letter—her holding a toddler. Me.
I didn’t say anything. I just turned and ran.
I stayed inside for days. Let the plants wilt. Skipped breakfast and forgot dinner. I thought knowing the truth would bring peace. But it felt like grief I hadn’t prepared for.
Then, one morning, a stack of letters appeared on my doorstep. Thirty of them. One for every year of my life. They were tied with string. Each written in her careful, uneven handwriting. She wrote to me every year. Hoped. Dreamed. Apologized. Loved me silently.
I read every word through tears.
On the third day, I opened the door to find the flowerbeds watered, the chickens fed, and a jar of jam waiting with a note:
“Saved the milk in my fridge. Love, Mom.”
Just like that, the word “Mom” became real.
I stepped into the sun. Linda—my mother—was on her side of the fence, wobbling again in yoga pose. Still trying. Still copying.
“You know,” I said gently, “warrior pose isn’t easy in jeans.”
She smiled. A real one this time.
“Relax your fingers,” I added. “And maybe lose the hat.”
We practiced together that morning. Two strangers learning how to become family.
Later, over tea, I pointed at the photo from her letter.
“That’s you, right?”
She nodded. “And you. My Ellie.”
“I read them all,” I said. “Thank you, Mom.”
She held her teacup like it was something precious.
“Can we try that one pose tomorrow? The one with the leg in the air?”
I smiled. We laughed. And just like that, something healed.
Karoline Leavitt’s Fashion Choice Sparks Online Criticism, But She’s Unfazed
White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt made headlines during a recent interview on March 31, 2025, after wearing an ankle-length green dress with a knee-high slit while speaking to reporters on the North Lawn of the White House. The outfit, paired with brown heels, caught the attention of netizens who didn’t hold back in sharing their opinions about her appearance.
Online Criticism of Her Dress After watching the interview, many viewers took to social media to criticize the fit of Leavitt’s dress. Some comments included remarks like, “She’s stuffed in that dress,” and, “I think your dress is on backwards?” Others commented, “The dress Karoline Leavitt is wearing doesn’t fit her,” and after seeing her walk, one person exclaimed, “Dress is WAY TOO TIGHT.”
Further criticism included comments like, “Your dress fits poorly,” and a request for a stylist. Others sympathized, with one person saying, “I can’t fit into my clothes from five years ago either.”
Despite the criticisms, some viewers found humor in the situation, with one Instagram user quipping, “Married a billionaire & still can’t get clothes that fit her correctly.”
Leavitt’s Personal Life: A Marriage with an Age Gap Amidst the online attention, Karoline Leavitt also opened up about her personal life during an interview on “The Megyn Kelly Show” in February 2025. She addressed the 32-year age gap between her and her husband, Nicholas Riccio, who is 59, while she is 27.
Leavitt explained how they met during her congressional campaign when Riccio attended an event she was speaking at. Although initially just acquaintances, the two later fell in love. She mentioned that despite their age difference, Riccio has been her greatest supporter and best friend. The couple shares a child together, and Leavitt praised her husband’s dedication as a father.
Wedding and Family Life Leavitt shared moments from her wedding in Rye, New Hampshire, posting pictures on Instagram to commemorate the day. She expressed her excitement about the wedding, captioning the images with, “Finally found some time to post a few of my favorite pictures from one of my favorite days! 😌🤍✨💍.”
The wedding took place at Wentworth By The Sea Country Club, where Leavitt’s hair was styled by Samantha Pisani, and Sarah Alicea handled her makeup. The day featured white roses, with the couple posing for photos on the golf course, and Riccio affectionately kissing his wife on the cheek.
A New Milestone: Welcoming Their Son Another significant milestone in Leavitt’s life came with the birth of her son, Nicholas Robert (Niko), on July 10, 2024. She shared the joyous news with her followers, expressing her gratitude and love for her newborn. In a heartfelt Instagram post, she shared, “The best moment of my life,” and reflected on the unparalleled love she felt for her child.
Leavitt’s family moments continued to shine on social media, with fans commenting on how much Niko resembled his father, Riccio. One commenter noted, “OMG their son is sooooooo cute!!! He’s a spitting image of his daddy.”
Fans Enjoying Family Moments Fans also took delight in a recent Instagram post featuring Leavitt, her husband, and their son, where she was seen smiling and holding Niko while her husband stood beside her. Many netizens shared their thoughts on how much the baby resembled both parents, making playful observations about Niko’s missing sock in the photo.
The candid snapshot captured a heartwarming family moment, with fans commenting on the cuteness of the little one and enjoying the personal glimpse into Leavitt’s life.
Max is ready to marry the love of his life, until he learns the truth. With only 72 hours until the wedding, he crafts a plan for the ultimate betrayal. As Sofia walks down the aisle, she expects the fairytale wedding she planned. But Max is about to turn their wedding into a reckoning.
Everything was perfect.
The venue was bathed in golden light, the floral arrangements were flawless, and the guests were all smiling, chatting, and sipping champagne.
Everything was exactly the way they were meant to be. It was the kind of wedding people dreamed about, the kind Sofia had spent months obsessing over.
She had planned every single detail, down to the little bag of sweets to keep guests busy if they were peckish during the ceremony.
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But as much as my fiancée had planned her dream wedding, I had planned every detail of my moment too.
I stood at the front, hands clasped, steadying my breath. The music swelled, the cue for the bridesmaids to get ready to enter.
I glanced around, taking in the expectant faces of our guests, the carefully curated decorations, and the warm glow of the candlelight. It was the perfect romantic wedding scene.
Everything felt exactly as it should.
And yet, I wasn’t nervous. Not even a little.
Not anymore.
72 Hours Earlier
I don’t remember sitting down.
One minute, I was standing by the window of my apartment, staring at the city skyline. The next, I was on the couch, head in my hands, trying to breathe.
Elena sat across from me, silent, waiting. Her words still echoed in my head. Over and over, like a song I just couldn’t turn off.
“I saw her, Max. With him. I wasn’t looking for it, I swear! But I saw them.”
“And you’re sure? Elena, I need you to be sure.” My voice sounded thin and foreign to me.
“Max, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure,” she said.
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The room felt too small. My apartment, once filled with wedding gifts and seating charts and excitement, now felt like a prison cell. I wanted to run, to escape this conversation.
How could Sofia cheat on me?
“Tell me everything,” I said.
Elena hesitated for a moment. Then, she squared her shoulders, meeting my eyes with a look of sympathy.
“I was at that new coffee shop that thrives on being vegan. I was picking up a coffee when I saw Sofia sitting at a corner table.”
She paused.
“She wasn’t alone, Max.”
“Who?” I asked.
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“I don’t know his name, but he looked so familiar. He could be one of her friends. I know I’ve seen him before. But I know how he looked at her, Max. And I know how she looked back at him.”
“That doesn’t mean much, Elena,” I said.
“Sofia touched his face, whispered something, and then she leaned in first, Max. And then they kissed.”
For a brief, pathetic second, I almost convinced myself that it was a misunderstanding. A mistake. But Sofia wasn’t careless. She was calculated.
She wouldn’t have let a man kiss her in public unless she knew she wouldn’t get caught. Unless she thought she had all the power and nobody who knew either of us would catch her.
“Max, I know this hurts,” Elena said. “But I took a photo. I knew you’d need proof.”
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“Show me,” I said, feeling my heart break as I glanced at Elena’s phone.
I blinked, staring down at my hands. They felt different. Detached from me.
“She said she loved me,” I murmured. “Our wedding is in 72 hours, Elena. What am I supposed to do now? Cancel the wedding?”
“No way!” Elena said. “Teach her a lesson!”
I lifted my head, and for the first time since the conversation started, I met Elena’s gaze with clear, steady rage.
“She’s not getting away with this.”
Elena didn’t look surprised.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
Something cold settled in my chest. I stood up and walked to the window. A deep, deadly clarity. I adjusted my tie like I had already made my decision.
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“I’m going to let her have her big day,” I said. “But not in the way she planned.”
A slow smirk curled at the edge of Elena’s lips.
“Tell me what you need, brother,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
The Present
The music got louder, signaling the first bridesmaid.
As they stepped into view, one after the other, a ripple of unease moved through the crowd. The room, once alive with quiet conversation, shifted completely.
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The bridesmaids were dressed in black, as if in mourning. Some of them had taken some convincing, but when they saw the proof that Elena and I had provided, none of them wanted to stand behind a liar.
They weren’t wearing the soft sky blue that Sofia had wanted. Not the carefully chosen pastel shades that matched the invitations and the floral centerpieces.
Nope.
They were in black.
One by one, they moved forward, their faces unreadable. Their dark dresses contrasted sharply against the delicate white petals scattered along the aisle.
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That’s when the whispers started. Both Sofia and I came from traditional families, so the bridesmaids wearing black was a huge problem. A few heads turned to each other with confused frowns.
“It’s so inauspicious, Max!” I could almost hear my mother screaming.
“Oh, it’s a bad omen,” I imagined my grandmother saying.
I kept my gaze steady, watching as my sister, Elena, reached her spot at the front. She met my eyes and, so subtly that no one else would notice, winked.
I exhaled slowly.
Yes.
Everything was just as I planned.
Then, the doors at the back of the hall opened.
Sofia stepped forward, glowing. I’ll admit, she looked absolutely stunning. A vision in white.
She took one step into the room, then froze.
For a moment, she didn’t understand. Her smile lingered on her lips as she scanned the crowd, expecting to see joy, excitement, and the warmth of celebration.
Instead, she saw the black dresses.
And her expression faltered.
Her eyes darted from one bridesmaid to the next, taking in the dark silhouettes, the somber energy, and the whispers rippling through the guests.
The color drained from her face.
Her lips parted slightly, as if to ask a question, but no words came out. Her hand clenched around the bouquet. She knew something was wrong.
Hesitation crept into her movements as she resumed walking. The usual confidence in her stride was gone. Each step down the aisle felt uncertain.
As she reached me, her hands trembling slightly, she took mine.
Her fingers were cold.
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“What’s going on, Max? Why did they change their dresses? What the hell? They’ve spoiled the entire aesthetic!”
I smiled at her. But there was no warmth in it. I had no affection for this woman anymore.
“Wait. You mean, you don’t know?” I asked, my voice just loud enough to carry.
A hush fell over the room.
Sofia’s eyes darted around the room. From me to the bridesmaids, to my sister standing tall beside them.
I turned slightly, gesturing toward the line of women dressed for mourning.
“This isn’t a wedding, Sofia,” I said, my voice calm.
Too calm. And I was calm. I had days to get my feelings in check.
“It’s a funeral,” I smiled.
There was a collective gasp across the hall. Our guests looked horrified. My mother looked as though she was going to faint.
Sofia’s fingers tightened around mine in a desperate grip.
“What are you talking about?” she gasped.
I let out a small, humorless laugh.
“We’re here to bury what’s left of our love. Or, more accurately,” I said, watching as she began to look nervous, “what you killed.”
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The silence was suffocating. Then, a murmur. Someone in the second row covered their mouth with a hand.
Someone else turned to the person sitting next to them, whispering urgently.
Sofia’s face flushed red.
The panic in her eyes sharpened into something else. Anger.
And then, finally, the realization hit her.
She tore her hands from mine and turned, her fury finding a new target.
“You told him?!” she snapped, her voice slicing through the air.
Sofia was looking directly at her bridesmaids now.
No. She was accusing them.
Her face twisted in rage.
“How could you do this?! You girls are my closest people! My closest friends! And this isn’t your business. Not at all. What the hell?”
“We didn’t want to believe Elena at first,” Maddie, Sofia’s best friend, said. “But after she showed us proof… we all knew that Max deserved better.”
Elena took a small step forward. I knew that look on my sister’s face. She was trying extremely hard to keep control. But when she spoke, her voice was steady, cold, and final.
“Sofia, it became our business the moment we found out what kind of person you really are.”
She lifted her chin slightly.
“It became our business the moment we found out who my brother was about to spend his life with.”
Sofia clenched her fists.
“You had no right!” she shrieked, her voice rising in hysteria.
I tilted my head.
“No right? Really? To know the truth about the woman I was going to marry?”
She turned back to me, her desperation clawing through her anger now.
“I can explain… Max!”
I shook my head. I couldn’t bear to hear her explanation. Or lack thereof. On one hand, I wanted to know everything. On the other hand, I just wanted Sofia to walk out of my life forever.
“No, Sofia,” I said after a moment. My voice was quiet. Controlled. Deadly.
“You just don’t like that you got caught.”
A choked sound escaped her lips. A mix of rage, humiliation, and something close to fear. Her eyes darted around the room again, searching for someone, anyone, to take her side.
But no one moved. Nobody dared to make a sound. No one came to her rescue.
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The guests sat frozen in their seats, too stunned to react.
Sofia’s own bridesmaids stood in silence, their black dresses making them look more like pallbearers than wedding attendants.
She had never felt more alone. I could see it on her face.
Sofia’s breath hitched.
Then she turned and ran. She whirled, the skirt of her gown billowing behind her. But in her rush, she stepped on the hem.
A gasp shot through the crowd as she stumbled, and she barely caught herself before tripping again. Her hands fisted the fabric of her dress, lifting it just enough to flee down the aisle.
No one stopped her. No one called after her. Not even her parents or her brother.
I exhaled slowly, releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Then I turned to Elena.
She stepped closer, reaching for my hand. I squeezed it in gratitude. Around me, guests remained frozen in shock, their eyes flicking between me and the empty space where Sofia had been moments ago.
I looked at my sister, my family, and the bridesmaids who had stood beside me today, not as part of a wedding but as part of something else entirely.
“I know this isn’t what anyone expected,” I said to the crowd. “But I’m done pretending. Go inside, eat, drink. I’ll be fine.”
I walked down the aisle, needing a few moments to myself before going back in. And then I saw her.
She was sitting on the curb, her white gown pooled around her like a ghost of the life she had lost.
Her hands were shaking, her shoulders were hunched, and she wasn’t the radiant bride anymore. She was just a woman who had finally run out of lies.
She looked up as I approached, her mascara smudged, her eyes red-rimmed and pleading. She reached out, fingers brushing my sleeve, then she grabbed my wrist, gripping it like a lifeline.
“Max,” she said. “Please. I’ll do anything… just don’t let this be over.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I pulled away.
“I messed up,” she said. “I was scared. I was stupid. But it was never real with him. It was always you, Max. It was always you…”
For a moment, I just looked at her.
“If it was always me,” I said quietly, “you wouldn’t have had to say that.”
“Please,” she begged.
“I’ll ask your mother to bring some dinner out for you,” I said.
I turned away and didn’t stop walking. I didn’t look back.
Instead, I went back into the venue and helped myself to the dinner buffet that Sofia had planned.
This was supposed to be a fairytale.
But fairytales end when the villain shows their true colors. And Sofia had just written the ending herself.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
