it has been removed.
My hands turn to ice.
Who could've done this?
Why?
I walk around the house to assess the rest of the damage. Surprisingly, nothing else is missing. It doesn't even look like it has been disturbed.
I hold my phone in my hand, with the numbers for 911 already dialed. It doesn't feel like there's anyone in the house anymore, but I still want to be prepared so I take my time and stomp loudly to try to get them to leave.
First, I make my way around the rooms quickly just to make sure that there's no one actually here.
Then I look for damage. Both guest rooms are untouched. The garage is too cluttered to tell whether anyone has taken anything, but I don't see anything missing.
Luckily, I had my computer and iPad with me. I don't have any other electronics in the house.
I look at myself in the big stand-up mirror in the master bedroom and put the phone down on the desk.
Did they really just come here and take the television? Why?
My television isn't even that new. I bought it for $500 two years ago, but how much could it be worth now?
When I walk past the tub in my bedroom, I still hear it calling to me, but now I'm too unnerved to get naked and get into it.
I'm feeling too vulnerable. Unsure as to what to do next, I walk into my closet and change out of my work clothes into something a little more comfortable.
I don't find my favorite elephant shirt in the drawer where I usually keep it so I check my underwear drawer that had a little bit of room on the side for miscellaneous things. Grabbing the shirt, I feel around underneath and realize that the money that I keep here is gone.
My heart skips a beat and then another and another. The tips of my fingers and toes turn to ice. I know immediately who took the envelope of cash.
This is an emergency stash that I got into the habit of keeping since college. The last time I checked, I had $700.
It’s significant, but it's not a life savings. I feel around the rest of the drawer and then check the one below just to make sure that it's actually gone.
It is.
They took it.
Mom knew exactly where I kept it because she was the one who had instructed me to keep an envelope just like this when I was in high school.
That was her way of saving money before she had a bank account and she always said that you never know when you're going to need a couple of hundred dollars in cash.
I lean against the wall and slide all the way down, unable to believe what she has done.
I don't know if Benjamin is in on it, but I wouldn't put anything past him at this point. She still has a key and she knew what kind of tool she would need to take the TV off the wall undamaged.
She also knew exactly where the money was. That explains why nothing else in the house is disturbed like it would be if it had been a stranger.
I feel betrayed.
Lied to.
Taken advantage of.
All of these emotions and many more swirl around in my mind and make it difficult to breathe. It's hard to explain what it's like to go through this.
My mom is supposed to be my rock.
She's supposed to be there for me no matter what.
She was never really like that to me, there were periods of sobriety, of course, but because I could never depend on exactly when she would be sober and present, she was never someone I could rely on.
I know that this is her addiction doing this to me. I know that it's a progressive disease. Yet I can't help how hurt I feel.
Then it gets worse.
Glancing at the top of my dresser, I realize that she took so much more than just the money.
My dog’s ashes are gone.
I jump up to my feet and look around for the small wooden box with a lock on the front and her name engraved on the top. I lost my dog three years ago and I've had her ashes here ever since.
I never scattered them because Charlie was never someone who liked being apart from me. She had her favorite places that she liked to walk, but her place was always with me. That's why I figured that if I ever sold this house, I’d take her with