Billionaire Was Taking His Fiancée Home — Until He Saw His Mother Carrying Firewood and Denied Her

The first time Naomi saw real fear on Jeremy’s face, it wasn’t in a boardroom filled with powerful men, or during a tense business negotiation, or even in the chaos of Lagos traffic.

It was on a dusty village road.

The kind of road time seemed to have forgotten—dry brown sand, scattered stones, and red earth that rose into the air with every passing vehicle. Jeremy’s expensive black SUV rolled through the village like a silent ruler passing through a land he no longer belonged to. Inside the car, the air-conditioning hummed softly. The leather seats were smooth and spotless. The tinted windows created a barrier between wealth and poverty, comfort and struggle.

At first, Jeremy looked calm. Confident. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other relaxed, like a man who believed the world bent naturally in his direction.

Then Naomi saw her.

An elderly woman walked slowly along the roadside, barefoot, her steps heavy and uneven. A large bundle of firewood was balanced on her head, stacked so high it pressed painfully into her scalp. Sweat streamed down her wrinkled face. Her faded clothes were frayed at the edges, stained with dust and years of hard labor. Strands of gray hair clung to her forehead, yet despite the weight and exhaustion, she tried to stand tall.

Something about the woman made Naomi’s chest tighten.

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

The SUV slowed slightly.

The old woman turned her head.

And in that instant, her face transformed.

It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t confusion.

It was recognition.

Her eyes lit up like a candle in darkness. Her lips trembled, and for a moment, it was as if her tired body forgot the pain it carried.

“Jeremy…” she called, her voice cracking.

Jeremy’s expression changed so fast Naomi barely had time to process it.

One second, he was composed.

The next, his jaw clenched tight. His eyes hardened—cold, sharp, distant—like a man staring at a ghost he hoped had stayed buried forever.

The old woman took another painful step forward. Dust swirled around her feet.

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

Naomi smiled instinctively. She believed this was a reunion, a moment of warmth, maybe even relief. She expected Jeremy to stop the car.

Instead, his hand moved abruptly.

He reached for the window control.

“No,” he said sharply.

Naomi blinked. “No? Jeremy, we can—”

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

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

Jeremy didn’t look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the woman outside, now standing still with hope etched into her tired eyes.

“She might be fetish,” he said, his voice low and tense. “Some of these village old women… they can be dangerous.”

Naomi’s breath caught.

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“That’s not fair,” she said quietly. “She’s exhausted. She’s carrying firewood. She’s—”

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

Outside, Madame Hannah stepped closer, hope pulling her forward like an invisible rope. Her voice softened, trembling with desperation and love as she called her son’s name again.

The car window stayed shut.

Research from institutions such as the World Health Organization and UNICEF has repeatedly shown that elderly women in rural communities often bear the heaviest physical and emotional burdens, frequently facing neglect, stigma, and abandonment—even from their own families. Studies from the United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs and the World Bank further highlight how wealth and urban migration can fracture family bonds, leaving vulnerable parents behind in poverty.

Psychologists from Harvard University and the London School of Economics note that shame and fear of social status loss often drive individuals to deny their origins, especially when poverty clashes with newly acquired power and privilege.

For Naomi, that dusty road became the moment she truly saw the man she was about to marry.

And for Madame Hannah, it was the moment a son she had carried, raised, and sacrificed for chose silence over compassion.