I scrolled back to that afternoon, to the moment they would have arrived home. The time marker read 3:42 p.m. I pressed play.
The video showed the front door opening. Amanda came through first, pulling a rolling suitcase behind her, her face glowing with what looked like a fresh tan. She was laughing at something, turning back to say something to Michael, who followed with the kids trailing behind him. They looked happy, relaxed, still basking in the glow of their vacation.
Amanda wheeled her suitcase toward the living room, probably planning to drop it there before unpacking.
I watched her face change as she stepped through the doorway. The laughter died. Her mouth opened. The suitcase handle slipped from her fingers.
Michael appeared behind her, his expression shifting from curiosity to confusion to shock in the span of three seconds.
“What the—?” His voice came through the speaker, tiny but clear. “Where’s everything?”
Amanda walked further into the empty room, her hands coming up to her face.
“The couch—the TV—everything’s gone.”
I watched Michael rush to the kitchen, heard him call out in dismay.
“The refrigerator. Amanda, they took the refrigerator.”
The children, sensing their parents’ panic, started crying. The youngest clutched Amanda’s leg while the older one asked what was happening over and over.
Amanda pulled out her phone with shaking hands. “I’m calling 911.”
Michael paced through the frame, his hands on his head, looking around wildly as if the furniture might reappear if he just looked hard enough.
“How did someone take everything? How did nobody notice?”
I took another sip of my tea, watching my son spiral into confusion. There was something almost clinical about it, seeing their panic from this distance through this screen—like watching a play where I already knew the ending.
Amanda’s voice rose. “Yes, we’d like to report a robbery. Our entire house has been emptied. Everything’s gone.”
Michael disappeared into another room, probably checking to see what else was missing. I heard him shout from off camera.
“The washer and dryer too. They took the washer and dryer.”
A part of me—the part that had spent years being a mother—wanted to feel sorry for them, to see their distress and want to fix it, to make it better.
But I couldn’t.
Because this wasn’t about them being hurt.
This was about them finally understanding what they’d lost, what they’d taken for granted, what they’d left behind without a second thought.
I fast-forwarded through the next hour, watched the police arrive, watched Michael and Amanda giving statements, gesturing at empty rooms, their faces drawn with stress and confusion. One officer walked through taking notes. The other stood in the kitchen, apparently asking questions. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could imagine:
What was taken? When did you notice? Do you have any idea who might have done this?
Amanda kept shaking her head, wiping her eyes. Michael’s face had gone from shocked to angry, his jaw tight, his movements sharp.
They had no idea.
Not yet.
But they would soon enough.
I watched a little longer until the officers left and Michael and Amanda were alone in the empty house, sitting on the floor because there was nowhere else to sit. Amanda had her head in her hands. Michael was on his phone, probably trying to call me again.
I turned off the video.
The living room around me felt warm and safe, filled with my furniture, my belongings, my choices. Outside my window, the evening had deepened into night and the courtyard lights had come on, casting a soft glow over the fountain.
