When we finally returned, our home felt emptier than usual—the silence, a heavy cloak draping over each room. The security footage was worse than any invoice: our sanctuary, crossed in and out by strangers’ shadows. I watched them rifling through drawers, touching my life, turning over our memories. Each grainy second twisted my heart—and then I saw it: our daughter’s drawing, taped to the fridge, slipping from the frame.
She had sketched our family—me, my partner, her—with simple lines and hopeful eyes. The thief paid it no mind, yet there it was, the last piece of innocence, dangling on its edge. It broke me. Not for what was gone—but for how fragile what we love can be. We called the police, replaced locks, and nestled the drawing safely in a nightstand. And when our daughter came home, we held her tightly—and showed her that though people can break in, they can’t break the love that protects us.
