How To Spot Eyelash Mites
Eyelash mites (Demodex mites) are microscopic organisms that naturally live on most people’s skin, especially around hair follicles and oil glands. In normal amounts, they’re harmless, but when they multiply excessively, they can lead to eye and eyelid problems.
There are two main types: Demodex folliculorum, which lives in hair follicles like eyelashes, and Demodex brevis, which prefers oil glands. Overgrowth can happen due to factors like aging, weakened immunity, or poor hygiene.
When this imbalance occurs, it can cause a condition called blepharitis (eyelid inflammation). Common symptoms include red, swollen, or itchy eyelids, a gritty or burning feeling in the eyes, crust or debris at the base of eyelashes, thinning lashes, increased sensitivity to light, and sometimes lash loss.
Not everyone with these mites experiences symptoms, so many people don’t even know they have them unless irritation develops or is checked by an eye doctor.
Treatment and prevention mainly focus on hygiene. Regularly cleaning the face—especially the eyelid area—with a gentle, fragrance-free cleanser can help keep mite populations under control. In some cases, doctors may recommend specific eyelid cleansers or treatments if symptoms are more severe.
If you notice persistent irritation or any of the symptoms above, it’s best to consult a healthcare professional or eye specialist for proper diagnosis and care.
I Hired a Teenager to Mow My Lawn for the Summer – Then I Learned Why He Chose My Yard
When a teenager knocked on my door asking to mow my lawn, I thought he was just looking for summer work. It wasn't until I caught him inside my locked garage that I realized he'd been coming to my house for a reason he was too afraid to tell me.
I signed the papers on my new house on a Thursday.
By Saturday morning, I was standing in the front yard wondering why I'd ever thought homeownership sounded relaxing.
The lawn looked like it had surrendered weeks ago.
Grass brushed against my ankles.
Weeds pushed through the flower beds.
The previous owner had clearly stopped caring long before he decided to sell.
I had just carried another box inside when someone knocked on the front door.
A teenage boy stood on the porch, one hand resting on the handle of an old red push mower with chipped paint and a front wheel that leaned slightly to one side.
He looked about 15.
His baseball cap had faded from years in the sun, and his sneakers had been patched so many times I couldn't tell what color they'd originally been.
"You the new owner?" he asked.
"I am."
Instead of answering, he looked past me at the house.
Not just a quick glance.
He studied it.
His eyes drifted from the front porch to the upstairs windows before settling on the detached garage behind the house.
He stared at it a second longer than everything else.
A faint smile crossed his face.
"Good," he said quietly.
"I was hoping somebody finally moved in."
I frowned.
"What do you mean?"
He looked embarrassed.
"Sorry. Empty houses always make me a little sad."
Then he gave an awkward smile.
"Anyway... I was wondering if you needed somebody to mow your lawn."
He nudged the mower with his foot.
"My name's Chase."
"I'm Rick."
"My mom and I live over at Cedar Creek Trailer Park. I'm trying to earn some money before school starts."
He said it matter-of-factly.
No rehearsed speech.
No sympathy play.
Just the truth.
"What do you charge?"
"Twenty-five dollars."
I almost laughed. It wasn't even half of what a landscaping company would've charged.
"I'll give you 50."
His eyebrows shot up.
"You serious?"
"If you do a good job."
A grin spread across his face.
"I will."
He pulled the starter cord.
The mower sputtered twice before roaring to life.
I spent the next hour unpacking boxes while the steady hum drifted through the open windows.
Every time I looked outside, Chase was working.
No phone.
No earbuds.
No disappearing for breaks.
Just straight, careful rows that slowly transformed the yard.
When he finally finished, it looked like an entirely different property.
I handed him the money.
He counted it once before looking back up at me.
"You are far too kind. I only asked for 25."
"And you earned 50."
For a second, he just stared at the bills.
"Thank you."
As he folded the money into his wallet, I noticed it again.
His face looked strangely familiar.
I couldn't place it, but it bothered me.
As he pushed the mower down the sidewalk, I kept watching until he disappeared around the corner.
Where had I seen him?
At the grocery store?
A neighbor's barbecue?
An old photograph?
Nothing fit.
By the following Saturday, Chase was back at exactly eight o'clock.
Not a minute early.
Not a minute late.
"Morning, Mr. Rick."
"Morning."
He got straight to work.
Around nine, I carried a bottle of water outside.
"You've earned a break."
He accepted it with a grateful smile.
"Thanks."
As he drank, his eyes wandered toward the detached garage.
He stared at it for several seconds.
"You ever been inside it?"
"Not once."
He looked surprised. "Really?"
"Still unpacking."
He nodded. "Makes sense."
Then he grabbed the mower and walked away before I could ask why he wanted to know.
The Saturday that followed, I found him standing beside the garage before he'd even started mowing.
His fingers rested lightly against the weathered siding.
He didn't notice me until I spoke.
"Everything okay?"
He pulled his hand away so quickly you'd think the wood had burned him.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
He nodded.
"I was just looking."
"At what?"
"The garage."
"What about it?"
He hesitated.
I watched him walk back toward the mower.
For just a second, he looked disappointed.
I couldn't figure out why.
But it stayed with me.
The weeks settled into a comfortable routine.
Every Saturday morning, Chase appeared with the same battered mower.
Every Saturday afternoon, my lawn looked perfect.
I started paying him a little extra each week.
Every week, he argued.
Every week, I won.
"You really don't have to keep doing that," he said one afternoon.
"You really don't have to keep arguing."
He laughed.
"Fair enough."
The more I got to know him, the more that familiar feeling nagged at me.
Sometimes it was the way he smiled.
Sometimes it was the way he stood at the end of the driveway with one hand shoved into his pocket.
I'd catch myself staring, convinced I was one second away from remembering.
Then it would disappear again.
One evening, curiosity got the better of me.
I dug through the listing photographs, wondering if I'd somehow seen Chase before.
There wasn't a single person in them.
I leaned back in my chair, annoyed with myself.
Maybe he just had one of those familiar faces.
I closed the folder and tried to forget about it.
I didn't.
A month after I'd hired him, my boss canceled an afternoon meeting.
I pulled into my driveway just after three.
The lawn mower sat in the backyard.
Its engine was still running.
One strip of grass remained half cut.
"Chase?"
No answer.
I walked around the side of the house.
"Chase?"
Still nothing.
Then I noticed the detached garage.
The door stood open.
I stopped walking.
That wasn't possible.
I'd never used the garage.
The only key stayed on a hook beside my kitchen door.
I knew I hadn't left it open.
"Chase?"
A few seconds later, he came jogging out of the garage.
The moment he saw me, he froze.
"I didn't hear your truck."
"I can see that."
I looked past him into the dim garage.
"How did you get in there?"
He blinked.
"The door was open."
"It wasn't."
He frowned.
"It was when I got here."
I reached into my pocket and held up the key.
"I've had this with me since the day I moved in."
His eyes drifted toward the garage before returning to mine.
"It was really hot."
"I just wanted to cool off for a minute."
His answer wasn't what bothered me.
It was what he said next.
He looked back toward the garage.
Then at me.
Genuine confusion crossed his face.
"You keep it locked now?"
I had never told him it had once been unlocked.
"What did you just say?"
Chase's eyes widened.
"I..."
"You asked if I keep the garage locked now."
He looked toward the open garage before meeting my eyes again.
"I should go."
"Chase."
He stopped.
"If you don't tell me what's going on, don't come back."
For a long moment, he didn't move. Then he whispered, "I'm sorry."
He turned off the mower, lowered the handle, pushed it down the driveway, and disappeared around the corner.
He never asked for his pay.
That bothered me almost as much as what he'd said.
For the next week, I couldn't stop thinking about the garage.
How did a 15-year-old know it had ever been unlocked?
The following Saturday came and went.
No Chase.
The grass grew taller.
The Saturday after that, I accepted that he wasn't coming back.
Three days later, I was leaving the grocery store when I spotted him climbing into the passenger seat of a brand-new black SUV.
For a second, I thought I'd mistaken him for someone else.
The faded cap was gone.
So were the patched jeans and worn sneakers.
He wore a designer polo shirt, spotless white shoes, and a watch that looked absurd on someone his age.
Then he looked up.
It was definitely Chase.
The SUV pulled away before I could call his name.
I stood there watching it disappear, wondering if I'd imagined everything he'd told me.
The next Saturday, there was another knock at my door.
I opened it to find Chase standing there with the old mower.
He looked exhausted.
"I know you told me not to come back."
"I did."
"I wanted to explain."
I stepped aside.
"Then explain."
He didn't sit.
He stood in my living room, twisting his cap between his hands.
"The man in the SUV..."
"My dad."
I waited.
"I live with my mom. The judge says I have to stay with him every other weekend."
I frowned.
"So the clothes..."
"They stay at his house."
He gave a small shrug.
"I call them my weekend clothes."
He tried to smile.
It didn't last.
"My dad likes people to think he takes care of me."
"And does he?"
"He buys expensive stuff."
He looked down at the cap in his hands.
"I'd rather have him show up to one of my baseball games."
The room fell silent.
"So why were you mowing my lawn?"
He closed his eyes.
"Because I wanted to be here."
He opened them again.
"My family used to own your house."
Everything clicked into place.
"The garage."
He nodded.
"My grandpa built the workbench. I learned to ride my bike on that concrete floor. When it rained, we'd sit in there and listen to the roof."
His voice cracked.
"After Grandpa died, everything fell apart. My mom couldn't keep the mortgage. We lost the house."
"When was this?"
"Three years ago."
"And your father?"
"He wasn't around."
I remembered the expensive SUV.
"He had the money?"
"He always had money. But he fought helping us."
The bitterness in his voice was quiet.
That somehow made it hurt more.
"When the court finally ordered child support, it was too late."
"We'd already packed everything."
He swallowed.
"I kept riding my bike past the house. Then I saw the 'For Sale' sign. When you moved in, I figured..." He laughed softly at himself. "I figured if I couldn't live here anymore..."
He looked toward the garage.
"...maybe I could still take care of it."
"You asked for the mowing job."
"It was the only reason."
"You weren't looking for work."
"I was looking for home."
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Finally I asked, "What happened the day I found you in the garage?"
"I sat at Grandpa's workbench. That's all. I remembered where everything used to be."
He looked embarrassed.
"When I walked up, and the door was locked..." He shook his head. "I forgot it wasn't ours anymore."
Those words landed harder than anything else he'd said.
I forgot it wasn't ours anymore.
"You didn't take anything."
"I didn't want anything. I missed my grandpa."
I believed him.
Every word.
"I'm sorry I lied."
"You should've told me."
"I was afraid you'd say no."
"I probably would've."
"I know."
That made us both laugh.
The tension finally eased.
"Go mow the lawn," I said.
"You still want me to?"
"I've got a feeling you're the only person who actually cares how it looks."
Chase smiled, then picked up the mower.
He'd almost reached the driveway when he stopped.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"If my dad wanted to see the garage..."
I looked at him.
"Would that be okay?"
"Why would he?"
"I finally told him why I kept coming here."
I waited.
"He didn't know."
"Didn't know what?"
"That this house meant more to me than anything he's ever bought me."
He looked down at the mower.
"I think... he finally wants to understand."
"If he really wants to understand," I said, "he can come."
Over the next month, Saturdays settled back into their routine.
Only now, after he finished mowing, we'd sit in lawn chairs beside the garage and drink cold sodas.
He told me stories about his grandfather.
How he'd repaired bicycles for neighborhood kids.
How every Christmas they built birdhouses together.
How he'd insisted every scratch in the garage floor had a story.
One afternoon I finally asked, "Do you ever tell your dad any of this?"
"I used to."
"What happened?"
"He'd say, 'We'll make new memories.'"
Chase looked at the concrete floor.
"But he never had time."
The following Saturday, I was trimming hedges when a familiar black SUV pulled into my driveway.
I recognized it immediately.
Christian climbed out alone.
"Chase said I should come see the garage," he said.
"He thinks I'll understand if I see it."
He looked toward the old building.
"I'm not sure I will."
"Maybe not," I said.
"But it's a start."
He nodded.
"I wanted to thank you."
"For what?"
"Giving him work. He talks about this place constantly."
I folded my arms.
"Does he?"
Christian nodded.
"I didn't realize how important this house was to him."
I didn't answer.
He looked genuinely uncomfortable.
Christian stared at the garage for a long moment.
"I honestly thought I was doing enough."
"The support payments."
"The clothes."
"The weekends."
I looked at him.
"Were you?"
He didn't answer right away.
Finally, he shook his head.
"Probably not."
For the first time, I didn't see a villain.
I saw a man who'd mistaken providing for parenting.
"They're not the same thing," I said quietly.
"I know."
He looked older than he had five minutes earlier.
"I just wish I'd learned it sooner."
That afternoon, father and son talked in my backyard for nearly an hour.
I stayed inside.
It wasn't my conversation to have.
When Christian finally left, Chase knocked on my back door.
"He apologized."
"How'd that go?"
"I don't know yet."
He shrugged.
"But it was the first conversation we've had that wasn't about grades or money."
"That's something."
"I think so."
A few days later, I finally decided to clean out the garage.
Boxes from the previous owner still lined one wall.
Cobwebs stretched across the rafters.
As I swept years of dust away from the back wall, my broom caught on something.
Faint pencil marks.
I knelt down.
There were names.
Dates.
Heights.
"CHASE - AGE 8."
"CHASE - AGE 10."
"CHASE - AGE 12."
Higher up were older marks.
His mother's.
And above them, one labeled simply, "GRANDPA."
As I pulled another dusty storage bin away from the wall, something slid onto the concrete.
A small framed photograph.
The glass was cracked, but the photograph was clear.
An older man stood beside a little boy holding a bicycle.
I recognized the boy immediately.
That's why his face had seemed so familiar.
I'd seen the photograph hanging in the hallway during the open house before the realtor packed it away.
I just stared.
Somehow, the garage had remembered everything.
The next Saturday, Chase arrived with the mower.
I didn't say a word.
I simply opened the garage door and pointed toward the wall.
He froze.
I held out the photograph.
"That's why your face seemed so familiar."
He took it carefully.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"I thought we'd lost this." He brushed a thumb across the cracked glass. "My grandpa loved this picture."
Slowly, he walked over.
His fingertips traced the tallest mark with incredible care.
"I thought they'd be gone."
He smiled through tears.
"Grandpa always said we'd need a taller wall."
I looked at the paint roller leaning in the corner.
I'd planned to repaint the entire garage that weekend.
Instead, I carried the roller back to the shelf and put the lid on the paint.
"I'm not painting over these."
He looked at me.
"You sure?"
"Some things deserve to stay exactly where they are."
He nodded.
We stood together in the old garage, looking at a family's history written in pencil.
Houses don't remember people, and walls don't miss families.
But every once in a while, they hold onto the proof that someone was loved there.
Sometimes, that's enough to help someone find their way home.
