When I returned to my childhood home, it wasn’t for nostalgia. I came to help my aging mother pack and prepare to leave the house she had held onto for decades. We hadn’t been close for years—life had taken me far away, and our calls were often short, filled with polite updates and mentions of aching knees or heavy grocery bags.
But one question always lingered in the back of my mind: Why did my mother dislike our old neighbor, Jeremy, so much?
As a child, Jeremy always seemed kind. He had a gentle smile, and once, he gave me a teddy bear I named Mr. Peebles. But when my mother found out, she was furious. I was grounded and told to stay away from him, without any explanation. I followed her rule, but the warmth I remembered in his eyes never quite faded from memory.
After Jeremy passed away, my mother finally agreed to move. It felt oddly timed—almost as if his absence was the final reason she needed. That detail stayed with me, quietly tugging at my thoughts.
Back home, little had changed. The creaky floorboards, the scent of lavender, the faded paint—it was all as I remembered. My mother, ever independent, called down from upstairs, insisting she didn’t need help. So I began sorting through things on the first floor.
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