I brought my daughter an old stuffed bear from my childhood. And after a while, it turned out that the toy from my childhood was not as harmless as I thought…

I took the bear down from the top shelf at my parents’ house when I was sorting through things. It was worn, had just one eye, and had that familiar old house smell. I held onto it for a long time before putting it in a bag for my daughter. That evening, she hugged it and said, “It’s warm, like it’s alive.” A few days later, I noticed she didn’t want to be alone with it. And then there was a moment after which I realized this bear wasn’t as harmless as it seemed to me…

This bear was with me almost my entire childhood.

My mom bought it at the market when I was about seven years old. Just a regular, cheap, brown bear. Back then, nobody thought about what toys were made of or who made them. It just was. I slept with it, took it with me when I stayed at my grandma’s, held its paw when I was scared.

And I was scared often.

My dad worked two jobs, so it was often just me and my mom. My mom always waited for dad late at night and sent me to bed. I would hide under the blankets and clutch the bear. It was heavy, solid, and I thought with it, I wasn’t alone.

Years passed.

I grew up, got married, had a daughter. The bear stayed in my parents’ house—first, just lying in the closet, then ending up on the top shelf. I almost forgot about it. Until the day my mom and I started sorting through old things. My mom couldn’t walk well and got tired quickly, so I did everything myself.

When I saw the bear, something pinched inside me.

I decided to give it to my daughter. Let there be a generational connection, let her have a “special” toy too, like I once did.

My daughter was eight at that time.

At first, she was happy, hugged the bear, and placed it on her bed. But after a couple of days, I noticed she was putting it away. She didn’t play with it, didn’t take it with her.

“I don’t like it,” she said one day.

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s kind of sad.”

I smiled and shrugged it off as childish imagination.

But then my daughter started having trouble sleeping. She would wake up at night, call for me, and say she was having disturbing dreams. I blamed school, stress, her age.

One night, I got up to get a drink of water and saw the light on in her room.

My daughter was sitting on the bed holding the bear, but she didn’t hug it; she held it away, almost like she was afraid of it.

“Mom,” she said quietly, “did you cry with it?”

That question threw me off balance.

I didn’t know what to say. Because yes, I did cry. Many times. Into my pillow, into its fur, so no one would hear. I suddenly realized all my fears, all the childhood tension, everything I had tried so hard to push away, was tied to this bear.

And maybe I passed that on.

The next day, I took the toy in my hands and for the first time in years, looked at it closely. The stitches were coarse, the insides were filled with something hard. I tore open its back. Inside were scraps of old fabric, bits of cotton, and… a tiny metal bell. Tarnished, rusty.

I remembered how sometimes at night, I heard a faint ringing when I turned over. Back then, I thought I was imagining it. Maybe I wasn’t.

I threw the bear away that same day. Without any regrets.

I told my daughter the toy was too old.

Since then, she’s been sleeping peacefully.

And for the first time, I thought about how much of our childhood fears we unknowingly pass on to our children—through words, objects, memories.

Sometimes it’s better to leave the past where it belongs.

Would you be able to throw away a childhood object if you realized it carried too much pain?

***********

I took the teddy bear down from the storage shelf in my parents’ apartment while sorting through old things. It was worn, with one eye missing and the familiar smell of an old house. I held it in my hands for a long time before putting it into my bag for my daughter.
That evening, she hugged it and said, “It’s warm, like it’s alive.”
A few days later, I started noticing that she didn’t want to be alone with it.
And then something happened that made me realize the bear wasn’t as harmless as I had thought…
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