The first time Naomi saw Jeremy truly scared, it wasn’t in a boardroom, or a business meeting, or even the wild traffic of Lagos.

It was on a dusty village road.

A road so rough it looked like it had been forgotten by time itself—brown sand, scattered stones, and red earth that rose in small clouds every time a car passed.

Jeremy’s expensive black SUV rolled through the village like a silent king. The air inside was cold from the AC. The leather seats were smooth. The windows were tinted dark, the kind of tint that made the world outside feel like it belonged to someone else.

Jeremy looked relaxed at first. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually, like a man who owned every mile he drove on.

Then Naomi saw an old woman.

The woman was walking slowly, barefoot, balancing heavy firewood on her head. The wood was stacked high, pressed into her scalp like punishment. Sweat poured down her face. Her clothes were dusty and worn at the edges. Gray hair scattered around her forehead, sticking to her skin.

Yet even with that weight, she tried to stand straight.

Something about her made Naomi’s chest tighten.

“My love,” Naomi said softly, leaning forward in her seat. “Let’s help her. She’s carrying too much. We can drop her at her house.”

The old woman turned her head as the SUV approached.

And suddenly her face changed.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion.

It was recognition.

Her eyes lit up like a candle in darkness. Her lips trembled. Her whole body seemed to forget how tired it was.

“Jeremy…” she called, voice cracking.

Jeremy’s face changed so fast Naomi almost didn’t believe it.

One second he was calm.

The next second his jaw tightened like iron. His eyes went hard, cold, and sharp—like he had just seen a ghost climb out of the ground.

The old woman took one painful step forward, dust rising around her feet.

“Jeremy, my son!” she called again, louder.

Naomi smiled without thinking. She honestly believed this would warm Jeremy’s heart.

But Jeremy’s hand moved fast.

He reached for the window button.

“No,” he said sharply.

Naomi blinked, confused. “No? Jeremy, we can—”

“No,” he repeated, colder this time. “We can’t help her.”

Naomi turned fully to him. “Jeremy, why? She’s an old woman.”

Jeremy didn’t even blink. His eyes stayed locked on the woman outside.

“She might be fetish,” he said, forcing the word out like a warning. “Some of these village old women… they can be devilish.”

Naomi’s mouth opened slightly.

She couldn’t believe she was hearing this.

“Jeremy, that’s not fair,” Naomi said. “She’s carrying wood. She’s tired. She’s—”

“This is my village,” Jeremy snapped. “I know them better than you.”

Outside, Madame Hannah pushed forward with hope dragging her body like a rope. Her voice softened now, shaking like someone begging.

“My son…” she whispered. “It’s your mother. Hannah. Please.”

For one second—just one blink of a moment—Jeremy’s eyes looked watery.

Just for one second, Naomi saw the boy inside him. The boy who wanted to open the car door and run into his mother’s arms.

But pride rose faster than love.

Fear rose faster than truth.

Shame rose faster than mercy.

Jeremy pressed the window button again.

The tinted glass began to rise.

Naomi grabbed his arm. “Jeremy, stop! She knows you! She called your name!”

The window kept climbing, slowly cutting Madame Hannah’s face out of view.

Madame Hannah’s palm lifted, shaking in the air.

“Jeremy!” she cried. “Wait… please… it’s me!”

But the glass sealed her voice away like she didn’t exist.

The SUV engine growled.

Jeremy pressed harder on the pedal.

And the car zoomed forward.

Naomi snapped her head to the back window.

Madame Hannah grew smaller in the distance, frozen on the road, firewood still on her head, one hand still lifted like a woman waving goodbye to her own heart.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Dust flew around her.

Cars and bikes passed like nothing happened.

But Naomi felt like something in the world had cracked.

She turned back to Jeremy, breathing fast.

“Jeremy… that woman called you son,” Naomi said. “She said she’s your mother. And we came to this village to see your mother, didn’t we? What is going on?”

Jeremy swallowed so hard Naomi could see his throat tighten.

Then he forced a laugh that didn’t sound real.

“That woman is not my mother,” he said.

Naomi stared at him.

“Jeremy—”

“She’s trying to ruin my day,” he snapped. “It’s a bad omen.”

Naomi’s eyebrows pulled together. “A bad omen… because an old woman asked for help?”

Jeremy drove like the road offended him.

“I don’t know her,” he said again, louder this time, like saying it louder could turn lies into truth. “And for her to call my name means evil people are after my life in this village.”

Naomi’s skin went cold.

This was not the Jeremy she knew.

In Lagos, Jeremy was charming. In Lagos, Jeremy smiled at strangers and donated money to orphanages. In Lagos, Jeremy was the kind of man who held Naomi’s waist in public like he was proud of love.

But here, in this village…

Jeremy’s face was stone.

Naomi looked out the window again, but they were already far.

The road stretched ahead into dry bushes and small houses with red zinc roofs.

Naomi whispered to herself, barely breathing, “Why would an old woman call you her son if she doesn’t know you…”

Jeremy didn’t answer.

He only drove faster.

And Naomi finally understood the real truth.

Jeremy wasn’t avoiding an old woman.

Jeremy was running from a past he didn’t want anyone to touch.

Earlier that morning, Jeremy’s plan had been simple.

He would drive Naomi into the village, show her where he grew up, take a few pictures, and drive straight back to Lagos.

No long talks.

No old house.

No village drama.

No mother.

Because Jeremy had built a whole new life where his past did not belong.

But villages don’t forget their children.

And the village didn’t care about his tinted windows.

Jeremy’s father died when he was ten.

The day his father died, the house became quiet in a painful way—like the walls themselves stopped breathing.

No more laughter.

No more steady food.

No more safety.

Madame Hannah became everything.

She became mother and father.

She became trader and farmer.

She became the one who carried heavy firewood on her head and sold it in the market so she could buy school books for Jeremy.

Sometimes she came home late, tired and dirty, shoulders shaking from exhaustion.

But she still smiled at him.

“Jeremy,” she would say, rubbing his head gently. “You will not suffer like me. You will go far.”

And Jeremy did go far.

He got a scholarship. He left the village for Lagos with torn slippers and a hungry stomach. He worked, struggled, climbed.

He became rich.

Then he became very rich.

Then he became the kind of man people called “sir” before they even knew his name.

His mansion rose in Lekki. His suits cost more than his village house. His company entered newspapers.

But with every step up, Jeremy pushed the village down in his mind.

And he pushed his mother down too.

Not because she hurt him.

But because she reminded him of what he used to be.

And Jeremy hated being reminded.

So at first, he sent money sometimes—small money compared to what he had.

Then he stopped.

He changed his phone number.

He told his assistants, “If anyone from the village calls, block them.”

He told himself, “I’ll visit later.”

But later never came.

Then Naomi entered his life.

Beautiful. Smart. City girl confidence.

Naomi made Jeremy feel like a man who belonged in light, not in dust.

When Naomi brought up marriage, she said something that sounded sweet.

“I want to meet your mother before the wedding,” Naomi said one night. “I want her blessing.”

Jeremy’s smile froze.

He covered it with a laugh. “My mother… she’s not around much.”

Naomi frowned. “What do you mean?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Village life is stressful. She moves around.”

But Naomi didn’t let it go.

So Jeremy made a plan.

A fake plan.

Just a quick visit. Just sightseeing.

No mother.

No embarrassment.

No reminders.

And then Madame Hannah appeared on the road with firewood on her head and shattered everything.

When they reached the mansion that day, everything looked perfect again.

Electronic gates. Marble floors. Chilled water offered instantly.

Jeremy loosened his tie like a man coming home from a normal drive, not a man who had just crushed a mother’s heart.

Naomi stood in the living room, hands trembling.

“Jeremy… we need to talk.”

Jeremy didn’t look up. “I’m tired.”

“Tired?” Naomi repeated, her voice rising. “Jeremy, that woman—”

Jeremy’s head snapped up.

“Stop,” he warned.

Naomi swallowed but didn’t step back. “Your phone… the message. It said ‘Mama.’ Jeremy, why are you doing this?”

Jeremy stood up slowly.

He walked closer until he was right in front of her.

Then he lowered his voice into something calm but dangerous.

“If you mention this again,” he said coldly, “you will spoil everything.”

Naomi’s throat went dry.

“Everything?” she whispered.

Jeremy’s eyes did not soften.

Naomi realized then, with quiet fear spreading in her chest—

She might not know the man she was about to marry at all.

That night, Naomi couldn’t sleep.

Her mind replayed the same picture again and again:

An old woman on a dusty road.

Firewood on her head.

Tears on her cheeks.

And Jeremy rolling up the window like he was shutting away a dirty secret.

Weeks later, Jeremy’s wedding happened like a festival.

Expensive hall. Big musicians. Powerful guests.

Naomi wore white and smiled like a dream.

Jeremy stood like a king.

People cheered.

Cameras flashed.

But there was one empty seat nobody spoke about.

The seat where Jeremy’s mother should have been.

Naomi looked at that empty seat once during the ceremony, and something in her stomach sank.

The vows were spoken.

The kiss happened.

The crowd screamed with joy.

But Naomi’s heart felt cold.

Because she knew there was a tear somewhere out there that matched her happiness like a shadow.

For a while, life looked like a fairy tale from the outside.

Naomi lived in luxury. She posted smiling pictures. People praised her. Women envied her.

But inside the mansion, Naomi began to notice cracks.

Jeremy’s temper was quick.

His love felt conditional.

And anything connected to his village became a forbidden topic.

Then one morning, everything collapsed.

Naomi was in the kitchen sipping tea when she heard loud voices outside, serious voices.

Footsteps entered the house—heavy, firm, official.

Men walked in.

Not friends.

Not guests.

Law enforcement.

One held a document.

Jeremy stepped out of his study, confused. “What is this?”

The lead officer stared straight at him.

“Mr. Jeremy Okoye,” he said, voice firm. “You are under arrest for fraud and tax evasion.”

Naomi’s cup slipped from her hand and shattered.

Jeremy laughed once like it was a joke.

“This is nonsense,” he snapped. “Do you know who I am?”

“We know exactly who you are,” the officer replied.

Handcuffs clicked.

Naomi ran forward. “Wait! Please! There must be a mistake!”

Jeremy turned his head.

For the first time in months, Naomi saw real fear in his eyes.

Not pride.

Fear.

And as they pushed him toward the door, Jeremy shouted one sentence that hit Naomi like thunder:

“Naomi… don’t let them take everything!”

The gates closed behind the law enforcement vehicles.

The mansion suddenly felt too big.

Too quiet.

Too empty.

And Naomi couldn’t stop thinking of Madame Hannah’s words on that dusty road:

“My son…”

Jeremy’s trial shook Lagos.

News spread fast. Cameras flashed. Headlines screamed.

Billionaire CEO in fraud scandal.

Naomi sat behind Jeremy in court, hands shaking, praying something would save him.

But the evidence was heavy.

Witnesses came.

Documents were displayed.

And the judge’s voice came like final rain.

“Jeremy Okoye, you are hereby sentenced to twenty years imprisonment.”

Twenty.

Naomi felt her world tilt.

Jeremy’s knees almost gave way.

His face went pale.

He was dragged out before he could even look back properly.

That night, inside a prison cell, Jeremy finally remembered the village.

He remembered firewood.

He remembered bare feet on dust.

He remembered a woman calling him son through tears.

And for the first time, guilt didn’t knock.

It kicked the door down.

“Mama…” he whispered into the darkness.

And he cried like a boy again.

Months passed.

Jeremy’s pride melted. Prison stripped him down until only truth remained.

During one visit, Jeremy held the phone tightly, voice broken.

“Naomi… I need you to do something.”

Naomi’s eyes were tired. “What?”

“Go to the village,” he whispered. “Find my mother. I need to beg her. I need her forgiveness.”

Naomi didn’t argue.

She only nodded.

Because now she understood something painful:

Jeremy didn’t need his mother’s blessing anymore.

He needed her to release him from the weight of what he had done.

Naomi went to the village.

She found the old mud house.

The door hung loosely.

The compound was quiet.

Too quiet.

When she asked for Madame Hannah, the villagers’ faces changed.

And one woman wiped her eyes and said softly,

“Mama Hannah died… few days ago. She was sick. There was no one to care for her.”

Naomi dropped to her knees in the dust and cried like her own mother had died.

Because in that moment, Naomi saw the full punishment of pride:

Jeremy didn’t just reject his mother.

He rejected his last chance to make it right.

When Naomi told Jeremy, he didn’t speak at first.

His mouth opened but no sound came out.

Then his whole body shook.

“No… no… no,” he whispered.

“I wanted to beg her… I wanted to say sorry…”

His cry that day wasn’t loud.

It was worse.

It was the kind of crying that comes when something inside you dies forever.

Years later, Jeremy would leave prison early after new evidence proved he had been framed.

His name returned. His company reopened. His money returned.

But joy didn’t return.

Because not everything lost can be bought back.

Naomi left him quietly after his release, not with hatred, but with sadness.

“I can forgive you,” she told him one last time, “but I cannot stay with a man who could deny the woman who gave him everything.”

Jeremy begged.

He cried.

But she walked away.

And this time, he didn’t chase.

Because he finally understood:

Some consequences don’t come with second chances.

One evening, years later, Jeremy drove alone on a dusty road outside Lagos.

An old woman passed carrying firewood on her head.

His throat tightened.

He stopped the car quickly, stepping out.

“Please,” he said gently. “Let me help you.”

The woman looked surprised, then smiled.

“God bless you, my son,” she said.

Jeremy lifted the firewood carefully and placed it in his car.

As he drove her home, tears streamed down his face.

Because no matter how good he tried to become…

No matter how much money he gave away…

There was one thing he could never fix.

He had rolled up the window on the person who loved him first.

And the world had rolled up joy on him in return.

Sometimes, the richest punishment isn’t prison.

It’s living free…

with regret sitting beside you forever.