We thought it was a break-in—until the trap we set revealed a face we never imagined.
After my husband Eric and I moved out of our first condo, we kept it as a rental. During a gap between tenants, I stopped by—and something felt wrong. Muddy footprints led into the living room. The air was heavy, like I was being watched.
Then it happened again. Fresh prints. Scratches on the lock. I changed it and installed cameras. Inside, small things were out of place. A mug moved. A blanket folded differently. A watch disappeared—then reappeared, like nothing ever happened.
We set a trap: Dusty peach paint by the door, and hidden cameras inside.Nothing for days. Then, on my birthday, Eric pointed to my mom’s shoes. A smudge of that same paint on the heel. My heart stopped.I checked the footage. There she was—entering the condo like she belonged.Later, I asked gently, “Mom… have you been in the condo?”She broke down. Things with Dad had gotten bad. She needed somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. She never meant to scare me.I gave her a key. Changed the locks again—this time, for her.Now, she’s free. Independent. Healing.The locks changed. But so did we.
