My small grocery store was my life’s work, no time for daydreams of retirement. While others planned getaways, I was perfecting my shop, a cozy spot where neighbors became friends. For years, customers returned, their kids in tow, making my store a second home. But lately, things went missing—cheese, milk, bread, too much to ignore. I tracked every item, so I knew someone was stealing. One afternoon, Mrs. Patel, a longtime shopper, approached. “Nora, your dairy’s sparse,” she said. “I filled it yesterday,” I replied, puzzled. She chuckled, “Maybe pass the store to your kids?” Her words hit like a brick. I handed her the bag, quiet. I had a daughter, Emma, who vanished fifteen years ago with a note about starting over. I searched, begged the police, but they said she chose to leave. It crushed me, but I pushed forward.
The shelves confirmed Mrs. Patel’s words—stock was gone. I’d always trusted my customers, avoiding cameras, but now I installed them, watching late-night footage. A hooded figure darted through, face hidden, grabbing goods. I showed the police, but the officer dismissed it, “No face, no case—try an alarm.” Frustrated, I got one, and the thefts paused. I thought it was over—until one morning, the shelves were bare again, alarm silent. Mrs. Patel sighed, “We might shop elsewhere, Nora.” Fear gripped me—this store was everything. That night, I locked up, snuck in the back, and hid behind the counter. Hours later, the door creaked, alarm off. A small figure moved fast. I lunged, grabbing their hoodie, shouting, “Stop!” They dropped their haul and struggled. I pulled back the hood—a boy, fifteen, eyes wide with fear. They were Emma’s eyes. “Who are you?” I yelled. He slipped free and ran, leaving the hoodie. I stood, heart racing, wondering if he was hers.
The thefts stopped, but I couldn’t forget him. One evening, I saw a hooded kid leave another store, groceries tucked away. I followed him to a tidy house, holding his hoodie, hands trembling. I knocked. Emma opened the door, aged but my daughter. “Mom?” she gasped. I held up the hoodie. “Your son’s been taking from me.” Her boy, Liam, pleaded, “No cops!” Emma demanded, “Why, Liam?” He muttered, “You work so hard—we’re broke. I sold stuff to help.” Emma sighed, “Stealing’s wrong!” She faced me, “He’ll stop, Mom.” I pressed, “Fifteen years, Emma—who’s he?” Tears fell, “My son.” I asked to enter. In her small kitchen, she shared—she left pregnant, ashamed after ignoring my advice about Liam’s bad father. “I thought you’d hate me,” she said. I hugged her, “Never—you’re mine.” We cried, years fading. Emma scolded Liam, and I quietly thanked him—his theft reunited us.
