Food kept vanishing from Selene’s home—first chocolates, then entire meals. When her husband, Tobin, swore he wasn’t the culprit, she set up a hidden camera. When she saw the intruder on the footage, her blood ran cold.
At first, it was just small things disappearing from my fridge and pantry. A few chocolates missing from the box I’d been saving. The juice boxes Tobin loved, gone faster than usual.
Each time something went missing, I’d mentally check, wondering if I’d eaten it in some late-night daze.
But I knew my habits.
I could make a box of chocolates last weeks, savoring one piece at a time. I wasn’t the type to scarf down half a box and forget.
Still, I tried to explain it away.
Maybe Tobin was grabbing midnight snacks. Maybe work was making me lose track.
But then things got worse.
A bottle of wine we’d saved for our anniversary—the one I clearly remembered hiding at the back of the cabinet—ended up in the recycling bin.
The fancy cheese I’d bought for our dinner party was half-eaten before the guests arrived.
Each loss felt like a tiny stab to my sanity.
I started keeping a list.
Monday: half a box of imported cookies gone.
Wednesday: three pieces of dark chocolate missing.
Friday: the special raspberry jam I’d ordered online, nowhere to be found.
The pattern drove me nuts, not just because things were vanishing, but because of what was taken.
These weren’t random snacks or plain food—they were the special treats, the premium items I’d carefully chosen and looked forward to.
Then the caviar disappeared. Not the cheap stuff, but the premium Osetra I’d splurged on for Tobin’s birthday. $200 worth of tiny black pearls, gone without a trace.
That was enough.
Though it wasn’t like him, the only logical answer was that Tobin was snacking in secret. I had to confront him to get answers.
“Hey, hon,” I said one morning, keeping my tone casual. “Did you eat those Belgian truffles I got last week?”
Tobin looked up from his coffee, brow creasing. “What truffles?”
My stomach twisted. “The ones on the top pantry shelf, behind the cereal.”
“Didn’t touch them,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Didn’t know we had any.”
I stared, searching for any sign he was joking. Tobin was many things, but not a liar. If he said he didn’t eat the chocolates, he didn’t.
Which meant either I was losing my mind, or someone else was taking our food!
“You sure?” I pressed, my voice tighter. “The caviar from your birthday’s gone too. And that wine we saved for our anniversary? The one from our Napa trip?”
That got his attention. Tobin’s coffee cup froze halfway to his mouth. “What? That stuff was pricey! I was looking forward to that wine next month.”
“I know.” I crossed my arms, leaning against the counter. “Unless we’ve got a fancy mouse with expensive taste, someone’s been in our kitchen!”
I watched the realization hit him.
Someone had been in our house. Multiple times. While we slept? While we were at work? The thought sent a chill through me.
“Maybe we should put up cameras?” Tobin suggested, his voice uneasy. “Just to be safe?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Good idea.”
The camera was easy to hide: a small wireless one tucked behind cookbooks on the kitchen shelf.
I set it up carefully, making sure it had a clear view of the pantry and fridge. Then I waited, jumping every time my phone buzzed with a motion alert.
Two days later, I was at work when my phone pinged.
I slipped into an empty meeting room and opened the live feed.
I wasn’t sure what I expected—a maintenance worker, a hungry intruder with gourmet tastes, or maybe a clever raccoon?
Instead, I watched in disbelief as my mother-in-law, Ramona, strolled into our kitchen like she owned it.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I muttered, eyes glued to the screen.
She moved with total confidence, grabbing a wine glass and pouring the expensive Bordeaux we’d been saving. She even knew where we kept the good cheese.
The way she moved through our kitchen—opening drawers without hesitation, grabbing items without looking—told me this wasn’t her first raid. Not by a long shot.
But what happened next made my blood freeze.
Ramona didn’t leave after her wine and cheese feast. Instead, she walked down the hallway toward our bedroom.
The kitchen camera couldn’t follow, but luckily, I’d set up cameras around the house, just in case.
I switched to the bedroom feed and nearly dropped my phone.
Ramona was slipping into my favorite dress. She turned to check herself in the mirror. She wasn’t just stealing our fancy food—she was trying on my clothes!
But the worst was yet to come.
My jaw dropped as she went straight to my underwear drawer and started digging through my lingerie.
She slipped off my dress and tried on the satin and lace teddy I’d bought last week.
WHAT THE HELL! Ramona hadn’t just crossed a line—she’d smashed it.
Why? Ramona and I had never gotten along, but this was downright creepy. And how was she getting into our house?
The next day, I called in sick. I hid in the hallway, ready to catch my thieving mother-in-law in the act.
Right on schedule, at 2 p.m., Ramona let herself in.
I waited as she went through her usual routine: wine, cheese, a bit of caviar for good measure.
Then she headed for the bedroom.
The moment she started rummaging through my closet, I stepped into the room.
“Having fun?” I asked.
Ramona yelped, spinning so fast she nearly fell. “Selene! I—I was just—”
“Just what?” I kept my voice calm, though anger burned inside. “Just breaking into our house? Eating our food? Trying on my underwear?”
She flushed, but instead of shame, I saw defiance in her eyes.
“I was making sure your wardrobe still suits you! As Tobin’s mother, I have a duty—”
“To what? Decide how your son’s wife dresses?” I crossed my arms. “Where’d you get a key?”
“Tobin gave it to me!” she snapped. “He said I could come by anytime!”
I nearly laughed. “Funny, because he’s been just as confused as me about the missing food.”
Something flashed across her face—fear, maybe? But it quickly turned back to the smug look I’d grown to hate.
“Get out, Ramona.” I took her by the elbow and marched her to the door. “And hand over the key.”
She pulled away and glared like I was something nasty she’d stepped in. “This is my son’s house too, Selene. I’ll come by whenever I want!”
She stormed off, nose in the air. But this was far from over.
That night, I showed Tobin the footage. His face went from puzzled to horrified to furious in seconds.
“I never gave her a key,” he said when I asked, his voice tight with anger. “How’d she get one?”
We got our answer the next morning when Ramona showed up, acting like nothing happened.
Tobin blocked the doorway. “Mom. Where’d you get the key?”
She blinked innocently. “Oh, that? I made a copy! For emergencies, you know.”
“Emergencies,” I repeated flatly. “Like emergency wine tasting? Emergency dress-up in my clothes?”
Ramona looked sadly at Tobin. “If you spoiled your mom with better food or bought me nice clothes like you do for your wife, maybe I wouldn’t have been so curious.”
I’d had enough. Time to end this.
“Here’s the deal. You’re giving us every copy of that key.”
She scoffed. “And if I don’t?”
Tobin dropped a new lock set on the table. “Then you’ll be wasting your time trying to get into a house you can’t enter anymore.”
Ramona stood there, her face twisting with rage. Then she yanked a key from her purse and slammed it on the counter. “Fine! But don’t expect my help when you need it!”
I smirked. “Oh, we never did.”
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. She spent the next few weeks sulking, refusing to apologize or admit she was wrong.
Tobin got the worst of it, with her bombarding him with texts and calls about how unreasonable I was, and how he’d regret this if we had an emergency.
But he didn’t let her manipulate her way back in.
I changed the locks that day. Now, every time I open my fully stocked fridge or slip into an unworn dress, I smile, knowing my home is truly mine again.
And if Ramona wants to know what I’m eating or wearing? She’ll just have to imagine it.
