At first, it was just little things disappearing from my fridge and kitchen cabinets. A handful of chocolates missing from the box I’d been saving. The juice boxes Samuel loved, running out faster than usual. Each time something disappeared, I’d do a mental inventory, trying to remember if I’d eaten it myself in some late-night fog.

But I knew my habits.

I could make a box of chocolates last for weeks, savoring one piece at a time. Not the type to devour half a box and forget about it. Still, I tried to rationalize it. Maybe Samuel was sneaking midnight snacks. Maybe I was working too hard, losing track of things. But then the incidents started escalating. A bottle of wine we’d been saving for our anniversary — the one I specifically remembered pushing to the back of the cabinet — suddenly appeared in the recycling bin. The fancy cheese I’d bought for our dinner party was half-gone before the guests even arrived.

Each disappearance felt like a tiny paper cut to my sanity. I started keeping a log. Monday: half a box of imported cookies missing. Wednesday: three pieces of dark chocolate were gone. Friday: the special raspberry preserves I’d ordered online were nowhere to be found. The pattern was maddening, not just because things were disappearing, but because of what was being taken.