That Friday morning, I summoned her to my study. She stood across from my desk with her hands clasped, posture careful, eyes steady. I told her items had gone missing. I told her I believed she was responsible. I expected tears or anger or excuses.
Instead, she said quietly, “Sir, I have never taken anything that did not belong to me.”
Her calm irritated me. It felt rehearsed, calculated. I handed her the termination letter and told her to leave immediately, no severance included. She nodded once and walked past the living room, where Tyler and Owen were asleep on the carpet, plastic dinosaurs scattered around them. She paused, lifted a blanket, and tucked it gently over their shoulders.
Before leaving, she looked back at me and said, “One day, you will see what you chose not to look at.”
I dismissed the words as bitterness and closed the door behind her.
That night, long after the house had gone quiet, something restless pulled me back to the security app on my phone. I was not searching for proof anymore. I do not know what I expected. At first, I saw only routine. Yolanda cleaning counters. Yolanda folding towels. Yolanda moving through the house with practiced care.