After we moved out of our first condo, my husband Eric and I kept it as a rental. During a gap between tenants, I began noticing strange things: muddy footprints, scratched locks, and little items moved just enough to feel wrong. A mug in the wrong spot. A missing watch that later reappeared. It felt like someone was sneaking in—but leaving no trace,

The police brushed it off. So Eric and I set a trap: pale paint near the door and hidden cameras throughout the condo. Days passed with nothing… until my birthday. At the party, Eric nudged me to look at my mom’s shoes—beige heels with a faint smudge of that same dusty peach paint. My heart dropped. I checked the footage. There she was. My mom,

slipping into the condo like she’d done it before. Later, when I gently asked her, she broke down. Things at home were bad with Dad, and she’d been using the condo as a secret place to escape, needing peace. She hadn’t wanted, to worry anyone. She just needed somewhere safe. I gave her a key. Today, she’s out of that toxic marriage. She’s working at a quiet bookstore, living in a space that’s truly hers. No secrets. No fear. And the condo? Still locked up tight. But the real change happened in us.