It wasn’t about the flag.

It was about what it meant to me. I’d hung it out front the day I moved in—not to make a statement, just to feel a little more like home. New street, new neighbors, new everything. I was the outsider. Everyone knew it.It wasn’t even a big flag—just a modest one, clipped to the post by the porch. I didn’t expect anyone to notice it, let alone take it. But there I was, Tuesday morning, standing barefoot on the porch in my boxers, coffee in one hand… staring at the empty post.

And right below it on the welcome mat—folded small, no name on it—was a crisp $20 bill and a sticky note that read:

“Nothing personal. Hope this covers it.”

Now, I know how things look. I’m not exactly a local. I moved here from Arizona after retiring. Bought the smallest house on a quiet street in a small town, hoping for peace. I didn’t grow up with these folks. Didn’t go to the same churches, schools, or bake sales. Didn’t vote the same way, either, I guess. But I kept to myself. Mowed my lawn, waved politely. Never caused any trouble.

So for that to be my welcome? That stung. I didn’t file a police report. What would I even say? “Someone stole my American flag and paid me for it”? No damage. No confrontation. Just a quiet little hit-and-run on something personal. I let it go. Or, at least, I tried. But three days later… it happened again. This time, it was the replacement flag. I bought anoter one from the hardware store, ten bucks, nothing fancy. Gone. And this time? A $10 bill and another sticky note.