Lisa returned to her childhood home for one reason only: to take her mother, leave, and never come back. But one question remained unanswered—why had her mother despised their late neighbor so much? Upon stepping into his house, she finally found the answer. An answer she wished she had known long ago.
When I pulled up in front of my childhood home, a wave of emotions washed over me. The house looked almost the same as I remembered—slightly worn around the edges but still standing strong.
Stepping out of the car, I took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of the garden mixed with the faint aroma of aged wood.
Memories flooded back, each one pulling me deeper into the past.
The last time I had been here was years ago, for a family gathering that had felt more like an obligation than a celebration.
I had always kept my distance, absorbed in my own life—work, friends, all the things that had once seemed so urgent and important.
I knew it wasn’t right to stay away for so long, but my mother and I had never been close.
Susan was a strong-willed woman with firm opinions. As a child, I found it difficult to talk to her, and as I grew older, our conversations only became more strained.
We often clashed over small things, and keeping my distance felt easier.
But over time, I started noticing changes.
Whenever we spoke on the phone, she would mention how difficult it was to manage the house, how even grocery shopping and cleaning had become overwhelming.
Her voice had grown weaker, her words slower. I knew it was time to bring her closer to me—to a place where she would be safe and cared for.
Strangely, she finally agreed to move after the passing of her neighbor Jeremy, a man she had never liked.
I had never understood her hatred toward Jeremy.
Since childhood, she had warned me to stay away from him, forbidding me from playing near his yard. Yet, he had always been kind to me.
At some point, I stopped asking why she disliked him so much and simply followed her rules.
But even now, I remember his warm and gentle smile—so different from the harsh words my mother always spoke about him.
With my bags weighing down my arms, I took a deep breath and walked toward the house, taking in the familiar walls and slightly faded paint.
As I pushed the door open, a wave of nostalgia hit me.
The entrance smelled faintly of aged wood and lavender, just as it always had. Almost immediately, I heard my mother’s sharp, unmistakable voice calling from upstairs.
“Lisa, is that you?”
“Yes, Mom. Are you packing already?” I replied, trying to keep my tone light.
“I still need some time. Clean up the first floor!” she instructed, a hint of impatience in her voice.
I glanced at the staircase, contemplating offering my help, hoping it might make things easier and perhaps create a moment of peace between us.
“What if I help you? It’ll go faster, Mom.”
“No!” she snapped, her voice firm and unwavering. “You heard me! Stay out of here—I’ll do it myself!”
I sighed, feeling both defeated and unsurprised. My mother had always been stubborn, her words as rigid as she was.
Over the years, I had learned it was better to let her be rather than argue over something as simple as packing.
“Alright, Mom,” I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes slightly as I set my bags down and started looking around the living room.
My eyes landed on the shelves, cluttered with trinkets and framed photographs.
One photo caught my attention—a picture of Mom, Dad, and me, taken during a long-forgotten vacation.
I picked it up, studying my parents’ faces. I realized I didn’t resemble my father at all—not in his posture, nor in the color of his eyes.
His were a deep, warm brown, just like my mother’s.
Mine were green—an odd detail I had noticed as a child but never questioned.
My father had passed away in a tragic accident when I was young, leaving just Mom and me.
She never spoke much about him, and the few details I knew were locked away in these scattered photos.
Carefully, I placed the picture into a box, handling it gently before moving on.
As I wandered into my old bedroom, I couldn’t help but smile at a familiar treasure hidden in the back of my closet—Mr. Peebles, a worn but beloved teddy bear.
Jeremy, the neighbor, had given it to me years ago. I still remember the day he handed it to me, his face kind and gentle.
But when my mother found out, she had been furious, grounding me for an entire week and insisting that I throw Mr. Peebles away.
I had refused and instead hid him in my closet, where he had remained my quiet companion.
Holding Mr. Peebles, brushing off the dust, I once again wondered why my mother had hated Jeremy so much. She had never given me an answer—just strict rules to avoid him.
Over time, I had stopped questioning it. But now, looking at the teddy bear, a wave of curiosity surged within me.
There had to be a reason behind her anger—something I had never seen or understood.
Feeling unsettled, I walked back toward the staircase and called out to her again.
“Mom! How much longer?”
“An hour… maybe more,” she replied, her voice muffled by the distance.
I sighed, feeling the familiar pull of impatience and frustration.
“I’m going for a walk, then.”
“Alright, but don’t go too far!” she called back, the maternal worry in her voice evident, though I found it unnecessary.
“Mom, I’m 42! Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Sorry, it’s a habit,” she muttered, almost defensively.
I shook my head, a small smile playing on my lips. Some things never change.
Stepping outside, I felt the cool breeze as I looked toward Jeremy’s old house.
It showed no signs of life—no one had claimed it after his passing. It was clear he had no family to inherit it, no loved ones to care for it now that he was gone.
Taking a deep breath, I walked toward the front door.
To my surprise, it turned easily, and the door creaked open.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” My voice echoed through the empty halls, but as expected, there was only silence.
Upstairs, I entered Jeremy’s bedroom—a simple space with a single bed near the window.
Beside it, on a small table, I noticed a dusty box.
Curious, I brushed off the dust, revealing something unexpected.
On top, in neat handwriting, were the words: “For Lisa.”
I froze, my heart pounding.
For me? Did Jeremy know someone else with my name?
I couldn’t resist—I had to know what was inside.
Lifting the lid carefully, I found stacks of letters, faded photographs, and a worn-out journal.
I picked up one of the photos and gasped.
There was Jeremy, young and smiling, standing next to my mother.
They were close, arms wrapped around each other, beaming at the camera.
I couldn’t believe it.
My mother, who had warned me never to speak to him, looked so happy in his embrace.
With trembling hands, I opened the journal, flipping through its pages.
Eventually, I reached an entry from my birthday.
“Today was my dear Lisa’s eleventh birthday. Susan is still angry at me, and I doubt she will ever forgive me. I can’t blame her. The day she found out she was pregnant, I panicked and ran. If only I could turn back time and be there for my little girl.”
A lump formed in my throat.
Jeremy was my father.
As I sat there, trying to process it all, my eyes landed on a sealed letter at the bottom of the box.
“Lisa, I have always loved you. Not a day has passed that I haven’t regretted not being there for you.”
Tears blurred my vision.
Finally, after all these years, I knew the truth. And I realized—some truths, no matter how late, are still worth knowing.
