For as long as I could remember, I had always been the responsible one, the one who helped when things went wrong, the one who kept the peace. My younger sister, Emma, was the golden child. She could do no wrong in our mother’s eyes. Mom’s love for her was undeniable, and Emma always seemed to get away with everything—whether it was skipping chores, breaking rules, or, more recently, stealing things from around the house.
I did everything I could to make sure Emma was happy, bending over backward to support her. I would cover for her when she made mistakes and always made sure that she had what she needed. But no matter what I did, it was never good enough. She always found something to complain about, always wanted more.
Then one day, I started to notice things were missing. It started with small items—jewelry that had been passed down in the family, some keepsakes that had sentimental value, and then, one by one, things just disappeared. At first, I thought it was a mistake, maybe I had misplaced them or my mom had put them away without telling me. But as the days went by, I couldn’t deny the pattern. Things that had always been in the same spot were now gone. And I began to suspect Emma.
When I confronted her about it, she just shrugged it off. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I just borrowed some stuff for work.” But something in her eyes—an uneasy glance, a hint of nervousness—told me otherwise. I wanted to trust her, but the feeling in my gut told me there was more to the story than she was letting on.
I tried to talk to Mom about it, but, as expected, she didn’t believe me. “Emma would never do that,” she insisted, defending her as always. Mom made me feel like I was the crazy one, questioning everything. I began to doubt myself, wondering if I was just being paranoid, overthinking it. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.
After several weeks of missing items, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed proof. So, I did something I never thought I would: I set up hidden cameras in Mom’s house. I told myself it was just to ease my mind, to put the doubt to rest, but in reality, I knew I had to know the truth.
The first few days passed, and I kept telling myself to stay calm, not to jump to conclusions. But the urge to check the footage was overwhelming. Finally, after work one evening, I sat down in front of my computer, my hands trembling as I clicked on the first video.
As the footage began to play, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I knew I was about to see something that would confirm my suspicions. The camera was hidden in a corner of the living room, aimed directly at the shelf where my mother kept some of the missing items. I watched in silence, waiting.
And then I saw it.
Emma slipped into the room when she thought no one was around. She walked straight over to the shelf, her movements casual but calculated. She picked up a necklace—a family heirloom—held it for a moment, then slipped it into her pocket. My stomach dropped. She didn’t even look around, like it was second nature to her.
But that wasn’t all. She did the same thing with another item—a vintage pocket watch my grandfather had given me. I watched in horror as she took it, too, tucking it away without a hint of guilt.
I felt like I was going to pass out. My mind was racing. All this time, I had suspected her, and here it was—the confirmation that Emma had been taking from me, from Mom, from all of us. The anger bubbled up inside me, but I couldn’t ignore the cold fear settling in my chest. I had been right all along.
But what terrified me the most was what happened next.
After taking the items, Emma didn’t leave the room. She walked to the back of the house, to Mom’s room, where I had never expected her to go. The camera caught her slipping inside and disappearing from view. I sat there, frozen, watching the seconds tick by. What was she doing in there?
The video footage continued, and when Emma came out, she was holding something new—an envelope, something my mom had kept hidden in her drawer for years. I had seen it before, years ago, when I was younger. It was a letter from my father, the one that he had written to Mom just before he passed away. Emma had been obsessed with the letter when we were kids, but Mom never let her read it. And now… Emma was taking it.
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. She wasn’t just stealing trinkets and family items. She was after something far more valuable, something that had been a part of Mom’s past—a piece of our family history that meant more than anything else.
I couldn’t just sit back anymore. I had to do something. I had proof now, but what was I going to do with it? Confront her? Tell Mom? Or was there something darker at play? Something I couldn’t even begin to understand?
The camera footage was proof of everything, but what it also showed me was the depth of betrayal I never saw coming. Emma had crossed a line that went beyond stealing. She was after something far more sinister, and I had no idea where it would lead next.
I still haven’t confronted her. And part of me is terrified of what the next step will be. I can’t shake the image of her with that letter in her hand, her smirk fading into something far more unsettling.