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Childhood homes become shrines in our minds, and sometimes we expect others to preserve them as if time had stood still.
When I was a teen, a stranger appeared at my childhood home claiming he had lived there before us and asked my parents for a tour to see how it had changed. The irony was that my family was the first residents, so his request became utterly creepy very fast.
I learned then what this homeowner knows now: nostalgia makes for good stories, but rarely good houseguests.
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"AITJ For Not Letting a Stranger Get Married in My Back Yard?"
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