Last night my husband and I got home to work to see our front door standing open.
I knew, with the immediacy that you know terrible things, what had happened. I was right. We’d been robbed.
Someone took a crowbar, pried the framing of our front door off, and ransacked our house. They couldn’t have been gone long- the door was hanging open, but the cats were still inside. They didn’t take much, but they took enough.
Mostly, they stole my jewelry. I didn’t have big expensive pieces, but I had a lot of sentimental items. My great-grandmother’s watch, engraved to her from her sister. Rings my father had given my mother before they broke up. The necklaces that were my grandmother’s. Every single stupid little piece of jewelry on my dresser, including the little brontosaurus earrings I got in Canada.
But they also got other things- the bible my great-grandmother gave my grandparents for their wedding, because it happened to be in a box underneath my jewelry box. The purse my step-mother gave me for Christmas, that had been her mother’s until she died last October. The ipod with the photos of my little kitty that we had to put to sleep a week and a half ago. And so on.
I just. want it. back.
I am grateful, of course, that it wasn’t worse. Our cats are ok. We weren’t home, and so weren’t hurt. They didn’t even smash things, just took them. It could have been worse.
But that’s the thing- in our culture, saying “It could have been worse” is a dismissal- it’s a saying designed to negate what ever it was that wasn’t worse. And it’s true, it could have been worse.
But it really fucking sucked, and I’m really unhappy.