Then, just when I thought maybe it was another false alarm, the front door creaked open.
My breath caught in my throat.
There, standing in my hallway, was the intruder, wearing the same black outfit and mask. I grabbed my phone, trembling, and called the same officer.
“He’s here,” I whispered, barely able to contain my fear. “He’s inside my house right now.”
The officer reassured me that help was on the way. They had a team positioned just a few blocks away. I watched in helpless horror as the intruder moved through my house again.
This time, though, he wasn’t just rearranging things — he was going through my personal belongings.
He rifled through drawers, pulled out old photo albums, and sifted through papers.
I watched, feeling powerless, as he opened my closet and picked up one of my late husband’s sweaters, holding it for a moment before carelessly dropping it on the floor.
It felt like he was mocking me, showing me he had control over my life.
Just as he was about to leave the room, a loud banging echoed through the house. The police had arrived.
The intruder froze for a second before bolting toward the back door. The officers rushed in, guns drawn, shouting commands.
The intruder tried to escape, but it was too late. They tackled him to the ground in my backyard.
I watched it all unfold from my laptop, feeling a strange mix of relief and dread. And then, as they removed his mask, my world shattered.
It was my son.
