That morning, I asked her to come into my office.
She stood quietly, hands clasped, eyes lowered. I told her items were missing. I said I had reason to believe she was responsible. She didn’t raise her voice or cry. She simply looked at me and said, “Sir, I would never take anything from your family.”
Her calm response irritated me more than anger would have.
I handed her the termination letter and told her to leave immediately. No severance. No discussion.
As she passed through the living room, my twin sons were asleep on the floor, toys scattered around them. Alicia paused, knelt, and gently pulled a blanket over them. Then she stood, looked at me once more, and said, “One day, you’ll understand.”
I dismissed it as empty words.
That night, alone in my office, something compelled me to open the security app again.
That moment changed everything.
I wasn’t searching for anything specific at first. The footage showed ordinary scenes—Alicia cleaning, folding clothes, wiping surfaces. Nothing suspicious. I nearly closed it.
Then I noticed the timestamps.
The items had gone missing during hours when Alicia wasn’t even in the house.
My chest tightened.