Chapter 2

The first time, I hadn't understood.

Not really.

Brenda's thievery was just a quirk, an embarrassing habit.

Or so Mike always said. "Mom's just a bit eccentric," he'd chuckle, "she means no harm."

George, his father, would just mumble, "Don't make a big deal out of nothing."

But it wasn't nothing.

It started small, or what seemed small.

"Five-finger discounts," she'd call them, winking as she pulled a new lipstick or a pair of earrings from her purse after a trip to Target.

Grocery stores were her playground. A fancy cheese here, a gourmet chocolate bar there, tucked into her oversized handbag.

Our suburban community wasn't safe either.

Mrs. Gable's prize-winning garden gnome vanished one week, only to reappear chipped and hidden behind Brenda's rose bushes.

Mail disappeared from porches. Small packages, magazines.

Brenda would feign ignorance or blame "neighborhood kids."

Then came the stolen prescription.

Mrs. Henderson's medication, clearly marked, taken right from her porch.

That time, I saw the Ring footage too, after Brenda' s initial denial.

Brenda, clear as day, snatching the package.

When confronted, she' d feigned a "senior moment."

"All these deliveries," she'd sighed, looking at me pointedly, "Sarah gets so many packages, it's hard to keep track. I must have thought it was for our house."

I was mortified.

I apologized profusely to Mrs. Henderson. I smoothed things over.

I tried to talk to Mike.

"She needs help, Mike. This isn't normal."

"She's just getting older, Sarah. A little forgetful."

"Forgetful? Or a thief?"

He hated when I used that word.

"Don't be dramatic. She wouldn't hurt a fly."

George was even worse. "Brenda's got a good heart. She just... collects things."

Collects things.

Their denial was a thick, suffocating blanket.

I felt like I was screaming into a void.

They didn't see it, or they didn't want to.

And I, fool that I was, kept trying to make them.

Kept trying to protect Brenda from herself, and us from the fallout.

It was exhausting.

It was a constant, low hum of anxiety under the surface of our lives.

Every shopping trip with her was a nightmare of watching her hands, subtly trying to steer her away from temptation.

Every time a neighbor mentioned something missing, my stomach would clench.

I was walking on eggshells, trying to keep a lid on a simmering pot.

And it was about to boil over.