My knees felt weak. That safe wasn’t just about money or valuables. It was about identity. Security. Someone had taken it. Someone had been in my home, violated my space, hurt my son—and they had gotten away.
I felt tears burn my eyes, but I blinked them back. I couldn’t break down now.
The police searched the house, took statements, dusted for fingerprints. But I already knew how this would go. Whoever had done this was long gone. And even if they were caught, would it bring back the sense of safety I had just lost?
Hours later, after the officer left and the adrenaline wore off, I sat on the couch with Micah beside me, an ice pack pressed to his arm, and Noah curled up asleep in my lap.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Micah whispered. “I tried—”
I squeezed his hand. “It’s not your fault.”
We sat in silence for a while before he asked, “What do we do now?”
I exhaled slowly. “We move forward. We change the locks. We get a security system. And we don’t let fear control us.”
