Lisa had returned to her childhood home with only one goal — to collect her mother and leave for good. Yet one question lingered in her mind: why had her mother harbored such deep hatred toward their late neighbor, Jeremy? It was a mystery that had haunted Lisa for years. But once she stepped inside his abandoned house, she finally found the answer — one she wished she had known long ago.
As I pulled up to my old home, a swirl of emotions hit me. The house looked almost identical to how I remembered — a bit faded, slightly worn, but still standing tall and familiar. I stepped out of the car, taking in the scent of the garden, the mix of soil, flowers, and aged wood that carried me back to my childhood.
Memories rushed through me in waves — laughter, arguments, birthdays, and quiet dinners. The last time I had been here was years ago, for a family gathering that had felt more like an obligation than a celebration. Life had carried me far from this place, consumed by my work, my friends, and the constant motion of adulthood.
I always knew my mother and I were never close. Susan had strong opinions, and a temper to match. Talking to her as a child was hard enough, but as I grew older, it became almost impossible. We argued over trivial things, until one day I simply stopped trying.
But recently, I’d noticed she was changing. Her voice, once sharp and firm, had grown weak and tired. She spoke of how keeping up with the house had become difficult, how simple chores like grocery shopping or cleaning now left her exhausted. I knew it was time to bring her closer to me — somewhere safe, somewhere she wouldn’t be alone.
Surprisingly, she agreed. What shocked me most was the timing — she decided to move right after Jeremy, her lifelong neighbor, passed away. She had always disliked him, though I never understood why.
As a child, she’d warned me to stay away from him, forbidding me from stepping near his yard. It never made sense. Jeremy had always been kind to me — gentle, soft-spoken, the kind of man who smiled easily. Still, I obeyed her rules, even when I didn’t understand them.
Now, standing in front of that familiar front door again, I felt a pull of nostalgia mixed with unease. Inside, the air smelled of old wood and lavender. Then I heard her voice from upstairs — sharp, commanding, unmistakable.
“Lisa, is that you?”
“Yes, Mom,” I called back. “Are you packing already?”
“I still need time. Start cleaning downstairs,” she replied impatiently.
I offered to help her pack, hoping for a rare moment of peace between us. But as expected, she shut me down. “No! I said I’ll do it myself. Stay out of it!”
I sighed, half amused, half frustrated. That was my mother — stubborn to the end. I turned my attention to the living room, dusting off shelves cluttered with photographs and trinkets. My eyes landed on an old family photo — Mom, Dad, and me. For the first time, I noticed how little I resembled my father. His dark eyes and calm expression stood in contrast to my green eyes, a feature I’d never questioned until now.
My father had died young, in an accident I was too small to remember. After that, Mom rarely spoke of him. All I knew of him lived in the few faded pictures scattered around the house.
In my old bedroom, I found a forgotten piece of my childhood — Mr. Peebles, a small, worn teddy bear tucked in the back of the wardrobe. Jeremy had given it to me when I was little. I still remembered the warmth in his eyes when he handed it to me. My mother, on the other hand, had been furious. She’d yelled, grounded me, and ordered me to throw it away. But I couldn’t. I hid it instead, and somehow, it was still here.
Holding that little bear again, I felt something stir inside me — a mix of longing and confusion. Why had she hated him so much? What was she hiding from me?
When I called upstairs again, she told me she needed more time. So I decided to go for a walk — a short one, I promised.
Stepping outside, I looked toward Jeremy’s house. It stood empty, quiet, untouched since his passing. Curiosity got the better of me. I walked up the steps and, to my surprise, found the door unlocked. It creaked open easily.
“Hello? Anyone here?” I called softly, but the silence inside was thick. Dust motes floated in the air, illuminated by slivers of sunlight. I moved through the small rooms until I reached what looked like his bedroom. On a small table by the window sat a box, covered in dust. On the lid, in careful handwriting, were two words that made my heart stop — For Lisa.
My pulse quickened. Could it be for me? Slowly, I opened the box. Inside were letters, photographs, and a leather-bound journal, all old and worn. I picked up the first photo — and froze.
Jeremy was smiling in it, his arm around my mother. They looked happy, close — far too close for two people who supposedly despised each other. My hands trembled as I flipped through the journal, stopping at an entry dated on my eleventh birthday.
“Today was my dear Lisa’s birthday. Susan still hates me. I don’t blame her — when she found out she was pregnant, I panicked and left. I was a coward. If I could go back, I’d stay and raise our daughter with her.”
My breath caught. Our daughter. He was talking about me.
Page after page, I read his regrets, his longing, his love. “I gave Lisa a teddy bear today — she named him Mr. Peebles. I nearly cried when she hugged it. But Susan will make her throw it away. She’ll never tell Lisa who I am.”
Tears filled my eyes. The truth hit me like a wave — Jeremy was my real father.
At the bottom of the box lay a sealed envelope addressed to me. Inside was a final letter. “Lisa, my precious girl. I have loved you every day of your life. Please don’t blame your mother. I was the one who failed you both. I leave you everything I own — my home, my savings — as a small piece of the love I couldn’t show in person.”
I pressed the letter to my heart, tears spilling freely now. I had spent my whole life not knowing him, not understanding my mother’s bitterness. Now, everything made sense — her anger, her silence, her pain.
When I returned to the house, my mother was waiting outside with her bags packed. She looked up, concern flickering across her face when she saw my red eyes.
“Lisa, are you alright?” she asked.
“Yes,” I whispered, forcing a small smile. “Just got a bit of dust in my eyes.”
“Let’s go, sweetheart. There’s nothing left for me here,” she said quietly.
I helped her into the car, her frail hands trembling slightly as I closed the door. As we drove away, I looked back one last time — at the house that had held both lies and love, pain and truth.
For the first time in my life, I understood everything. And though the truth had come late, it was better than never knowing at all.