“I’m serious,” I insisted. “The door was locked. The windows were locked. I don’t leave a spare key outside.”
“Well,” she said, still half laughing, “either you’ve got a fairy godmother, or you’re more exhausted than you think.”
Then the groceries appeared.
It was a week later. I opened the fridge to make dinner and found a full gallon of milk, a carton of eggs, three packs of fresh chicken, and a slab of butter, all sitting in the center shelf as they belonged there.
I hadn’t bought any of it.
I froze, a block of cheese in one hand, the other braced on the fridge door. Someone had entered my house again. More than once, maybe. They were comfortable enough to put things away neatly. They weren’t stealing anything. No electronics missing, no jewelry disturbed. They were… stocking my fridge?
I checked the front door. Still locked. No scratch marks. No signs of forced entry. The windows, too—every lock clicked firmly into place.
I should have called the police. Any rational adult would have. But what would I say?
“Hello, officer, someone broke into my house and… cleaned? And left me groceries?”
I imagined the dispatcher thinking I was sleep-deprived or delusional.
By that point, I was cycling between fear and gratitude in an absurd emotional loop. Yes, I was terrified someone was inside my home without my knowledge. But also, who folds fitted sheets that well? Certainly not me.
My breaking point arrived when I walked into Teddy’s room one morning and found all his toys sorted into labeled bins. Labeled. In handwriting that wasn’t mine.
“Mommy, who did this?” he asked, eyes wide.
“I… don’t know,” I whispered.
That night, I made a decision. If someone was coming in, I wanted to know who it was.
I put the kids to bed at their usual time, tucked them in, kissed their foreheads, and then went downstairs with a blanket. Instead of heading to my own room, I turned off all the lights and positioned myself behind the couch. It gave me a clear view of the kitchen and the hallway leading to the front door. I left only the porch light on outside, just enough to see silhouettes through the window.
My heart hammered in my chest as I curled up there, the blanket pulled over me. I waited. And waited. Each creak of the house made me tense. I imagined footsteps that weren’t there. I counted the minutes by the hum of the refrigerator.
At 3:04 a.m., I heard it.
A soft click. The front door handle is turning.
Every muscle in my body locked.
The door opened slowly if whoever was entering didn’t want to make a sound. The porch light cast a pale glow across the entryway, and a figure slipped in, closing the door behind him with an ease that told me he’d done it many times.
He was tall, wearing a dark hoodie, carrying a reusable grocery bag. Even from the shadows, I could see that his movements were deliberate, quiet, and practiced.
Fear crawled up my spine so fast it made me dizzy.
Who was he?
How did he have a key?
And why was he bringing groceries?
My breath hitched, just loud enough that I pressed a hand against my mouth.
The figure moved into the kitchen, set the bag on the counter, and started unpacking. Eggs, fruit, bread. He put everything away with familiarity. Then he filled the sink, put on gloves, and began scrubbing a pan I must have forgotten that evening.
I should have called out. Should have dialed 911. Should have done anything except stare.
But then he turned slightly, and light brushed across his face.
I knew that face. Continue reading…
