A Week Ago, My House Was Robbed — Today, My Son (Who Doesn’t Have a Job) Bought Himself a Sports Car
A week ago, I came home to shattered glass and silence. The house was ransacked—drawers open, jewelry gone, electronics missing, even my father’s old watch, the one I kept in a box under my bed. The police said it looked like an inside job. No signs of forced entry. Just someone who knew what to look for, and where.
I didn’t want to believe it. Not at first. But something about the way my 23-year-old son, Caleb, reacted made my stomach twist.
He was quiet. Not shaken. Just…calm. Too calm. No anger, no worry. He said all the right things—”That’s awful,” “I’m sorry, Mom,” “Let me know if I can help”—but his eyes didn’t match his words. And that’s when I started paying attention.
Caleb hasn’t had a job in nearly a year. He dropped out of college, said he was figuring things out, “building something online,” though I never saw much proof of it. Still, I gave him space. He’s my son. I want to believe in him. I need to believe in him.
But then today—exactly one week after the break-in—he pulled up to the house in a brand-new, cherry-red sports car. A Lexus RC F. My heart dropped.
“What do you think?” he grinned, stepping out like he was James Bond on a casual Tuesday.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, already knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.
“I bought it,” he said, with a proud shrug. “I’ve been investing in crypto. It finally paid off.”
Crypto. Of course. The easiest lie in 2025.
I asked for proof—wallets, transactions, anything. He deflected. Said he didn’t owe me explanations. That he was an adult now. I told him we were still dealing with a robbery, still filing insurance, and it was very strange timing. That’s when he snapped.
“Are you accusing me?” he yelled. “You think I robbed you?”
And I couldn’t answer.
Because maybe I didn’t want to hear myself say yes.
That night, after he went out for a drive, I searched his room. I told myself it was wrong, but I did it anyway. And there, in the back of his closet, was my father’s watch.
I sat on his bed, holding it in my hand, and I couldn’t even cry. Just felt hollow.
When Caleb got home, I didn’t say anything. I just held up the watch. He froze. Then said the one thing I didn’t expect:
“Mom… I didn’t steal it. I took it back.”
That’s when he told me—three weeks ago, he loaned it to a friend, against my wishes. Thought it would impress some girl. Then the “friend” disappeared, and Caleb panicked. The robbery, he says, was staged. To cover it up. To buy time.
But the money? He claims that really was crypto.
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
All I know is: the trust is broken. And I’m not sure a sports car can drive us back.
