A Week Ago, My House Was Robbed — Today
A week ago, my house was robbed.
I say that sentence now with a kind of strange detachment, but the truth is, it shattered something inside me. Not just the usual things—security, trust—but a sense of knowing. Knowing that when I lock the door, I’m safe. Knowing that the place I call home won’t betray me in the dark. That illusion is gone now.
It happened on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. I was out running errands, just like any other day. I stopped for coffee. I picked up groceries. I even paused to admire a puppy someone had tied up outside the store. Meanwhile, someone—or more likely, someones—was inside my home, tearing through drawers, dumping closets, invading everything sacred. They took jewelry that belonged to my grandmother, a watch I was going to pass down to my nephew, and even the old camera that still had film from my last road trip.
But it wasn’t just the things. It was the air that felt different when I stepped back inside. Stale. Touched. Wrong. I remember standing in the middle of the living room and feeling like I didn’t recognize it. Like it wasn’t mine anymore.
The days that followed were a blur. Police reports, insurance claims, texts from friends. Everyone said the same thing: “Thank God you weren’t home.” And I get it. I am grateful. But the violation remains. And so does the question: what kind of person walks into someone’s life, picks through it like a bargain bin, and walks out unbothered?
Today, though, something shifted.
I found myself sitting at the kitchen table, where I hadn’t spent much time since it happened. There was sunlight coming through the window, spilling over a chipped mug I hadn’t gotten around to tossing. And for the first time in a week, I let myself breathe. Deeply. Fully. I looked around, and yes, some things were missing. But not everything.
They didn’t take the weird painting I made in college that still hangs in the hallway. They didn’t take the little glass frog from my first trip abroad. They didn’t take the hundreds of books lining the shelves, or the memories pressed between their pages. They didn’t take the walls. Or the roof. Or me.
So today, I bought new curtains.
It may not sound like much, but it felt like reclaiming something. I chose ones with bold colors—totally different from the old ones. I put them up with music playing and a glass of wine by my side. And for a moment, I felt it again: this is mine. This space, this life, this strange, fragile, beautiful sense of home.
I know healing won’t happen overnight. But today was a beginning.
And that’s enough.
