Three days later, I checked again—and both items were back, in the same drawer, in the exact position. That’s when I realized someone wasn’t just entering—they were being careful not to leave a trace.
The police listened, but without clear evidence, there wasn’t much they could do. That night, I told Eric everything. He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “Let’s set a trap.”
We painted a small, barely visible patch of color near the entryway—something soft and neutral. Just enough to leave a mark. We also installed cameras: one blinking decoy outside and three real ones hidden inside, connected to our phones.
Days passed. Nothing. Then, on my birthday, everything changed.
We were celebrating at our new home. Laughter filled the room, but my thoughts were elsewhere. At one point, Eric nudged me. “Look at her shoes,” he whispered.
I followed his eyes to my mom. She was wearing beige heels. And on the edge of one heel—a faint smudge of that same soft paint.
I excused myself and opened the camera app. There it was: footage of someone walking through the condo with ease and familiarity. When the face turned toward the camera, my breath caught.
It was my mother.
That night, after everyone left, I asked her gently if she’d been going to the condo.
She didn’t deny it. Her voice shook as she explained that things had been difficult at home. She needed space, somewhere to feel safe. She still remembered the door code. The condo reminded her of simpler, happier times. “I never meant to scare you,” she said. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”
“You should’ve told me,” I said. “You’re never alone.”
She broke down, and I held her. That night, we packed a bag and returned to the condo—together this time. I changed the locks again and gave her a new set of keys. We cleaned up, stocked the fridge, and helped her settle in. Over the following weeks, Eric and I supported her as she filed for separation. She found a job at a cozy bookstore, and eventually moved into a place of her own—with sunlight, peace, and a secure lock she had full control over.
Sometimes, I still check the cameras. Habit, I guess. But it’s quiet now.
My mom isn’t just my mom anymore. She’s a woman who found her strength in silence. Who endured more than I ever knew—and chose peace, even if it meant doing so in secret for a while.
The locks changed. So did we.