I had lived with my mother’s unspoken rule all my life: never talk to Jeremy. It was more than just a suggestion—it was a command. She didn’t even want me looking in his direction when we passed his house. I never understood why, and every time I asked, she shut me down with a sharp “Because I said so.”
But Jeremy never seemed like a bad guy. He was quiet, kind in the few stolen moments I managed to exchange with him. Once, when I was about seven, I was playing outside when my kite got stuck in a tree. My mother was inside, probably on the phone or watching her shows. Jeremy saw me struggling and wordlessly walked over, climbed onto a step ladder, and plucked it down. Then, he handed me the kite with a small smile.
That was the first time I really saw him—up close, beyond my mother’s whispered warnings. He had deep lines around his eyes, the kind that formed from years of smiling.
A few days later, I found a tiny teddy bear sitting on our front step. Jeremy was tending to his roses when I ran over and asked, “Did you leave this for me?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “It belonged to someone very special. I thought you might like it.”
I named him Mr. Peebles and carried him everywhere—until my mother found out. She was furious. “Where did you get this?” she snapped, shaking the bear at me.
I lied and said I found it at school, but she saw through me. “You throw it away. Right now.”
I couldn’t do it. Instead, I buried Mr. Peebles in the back of my closet.
Years later, my mother’s health started failing.
We were never that close, but she was my only family. I asked her to move in with me, and she refused—until one day, out of nowhere, she changed her mind. I later learned it was the day Jeremy passed away.
While she packed, I went up to the attic and found an old box from my childhood. And there, nestled between forgotten toys, was Mr. Peebles. Holding him brought back a flood of memories, but mostly, it brought back questions.
Why had she hated Jeremy so much?
I had to know.
Jeremy’s house stood empty, the windows dark, the porch sagging. It felt wrong being there, but I pushed the guilt aside. The door was unlocked—maybe the realtor had forgotten to secure it. The air inside smelled stale, untouched.
And then I saw it.
A small wooden box on a dust-covered table.
It had a name on it.
“For Lisa.”
My heart stopped. That was my name.
With shaking hands, I lifted the lid.
Inside was a black-and-white photo of a young Jeremy… with my mother.
I flipped it over, my breath catching.
“Summer ‘78. My love, Marie.”
I sat down, stunned.
Jeremy had loved my mother?
I dug deeper into the box and found a stack of letters, yellowed and brittle at the edges. My fingers trembled as I unfolded the first one.
“Marie, I miss you every day. You told me to stay away, but I don’t know how to let you go. I see you with him, and it breaks me. If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me. Always yours, Jeremy.”
I kept reading, letter after letter. It was the same story over and over—Jeremy’s love for my mother, his heartbreak, his hope that she would one day come back.
Then, at the very bottom of the box, I found something even more shocking: a diary.
It wasn’t Jeremy’s. It was my mother’s.
I hesitated. This felt like a betrayal, but the need to understand was stronger.
The entries were sparse, but the pain in them was palpable.
“I saw him today. I wanted to run to him. I wanted to scream. But I can’t. I made my choice. I chose stability, I chose safety. But my heart will always belong to Jeremy.”
“He left a teddy bear for Lisa today. I almost let her keep it. Almost. But I can’t risk it. If she ever finds out—if she ever asks—how could I explain that the man I told her to hate is the man I once loved?”
Tears blurred my vision.
Jeremy wasn’t some villain. He had been the love of her life.
And she had spent all these years pretending he didn’t exist.
I took the box home, and that night, after dinner, I placed the photo in front of my mother.
She froze.
“I went to Jeremy’s house,” I admitted. “I found this. And these.” I pushed the letters and diary toward her.
She stared at them for a long time before exhaling shakily. “You weren’t supposed to know.”
“Why?” My voice cracked. “Why did you hate him so much?”
She closed her eyes. “I never hated him, Lisa.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I hated myself.”
She wiped at her eyes before continuing. “I met Jeremy when I was young. We were in love, but my parents didn’t approve. They wanted me to marry someone ‘secure,’ someone they chose. I was scared. I thought love wasn’t enough, so I walked away. And when I realized my mistake, it was too late.”
I swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
She looked at me with eyes filled with regret. “Because if you knew the truth, you might have loved him too. And I couldn’t bear it. It would have made my mistake real.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out Mr. Peebles. “He wanted me to have this.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek. “Of course he did.”
For the first time, I saw my mother not as the strict woman who had controlled my childhood, but as a woman who had made choices she could never take back. A woman who had lived with regret.
That night, I sat with her as she ran her fingers over the letters, reading the words of a man who had loved her despite everything.
I don’t know if it gave her peace, but it gave me something.
Closure.
And maybe, in some small way, a connection to the man who had never stopped loving us both.
If this story moved you, share it with someone who needs a reminder that love and regret often walk hand in hand. And don’t forget to like if it made you feel something! ❤️
