Who stole the money?

 

                                                                                                                                                -LittleFawn

(Tale-11)

It was the kind of scorching summer day that makes the air shimmer and everything feel a little slower. Yet, despite the oppressive heat, there was joy in the little things. Laughter echoed in the air, and the rhythmic hum of daily life filled the small rural village.

Our home was modest but lively—a cottage tucked within a fenced yard. A sturdy iron gate marked the entrance, standing like a silent sentinel. Beyond it, the world seemed simpler. A small cow shed stood in the corner, where our cow and her playful calf mooed lazily. Grandma, with her ever-vibrant scarf tied around her head, was crouched in the garden, watering rows of vegetables she had tended with care.

Nearby, Grandpa sat in his old wooden rocking chair on the porch, the creaking sound blending with the occasional rustle of the newspaper he held. A cup of steaming milk tea rested on the armrest, and every now and then, he’d sip it thoughtfully. Mama moved briskly, bringing him a refill, while Sara, the housemaid, scrubbed dishes at the hand pump behind the house.

Papa was at work, leaving me, the youngest and most carefree member of the family, to dart about the property, a whirlwind of curiosity. Our home was part of a simple village where time moved at its own leisurely pace. There was no tap water—just the hand pump. No supermarket, only a bazaar that sprang to life twice a week. The milk we sold came from our cow, and the vegetables we ate grew right outside our door.

Life here was not easy, but it was honest. People trusted one another, their bonds strengthened by shared struggles. Or so I believed.

For years, this mutual trust had been the foundation of our family and community. It was as if that trust shielded us from the outside world’s complexities. But trust is a fragile thing, and I didn’t realize how quickly it could shatter until that fateful day.

It started with Grandma’s plastic box—a plain, unimpressive container she kept in her room. It wasn’t locked, nor was it hidden. Inside were a few crumpled bills she had been saving for reasons known only to her. She never worried about its safety; after all, who would steal from their own family?

But one evening, the box was opened, and part of the money was missing. It was a small amount, enough for Grandma to notice but not enough to raise alarms. She let it slide, thinking it was misplaced or forgotten.

However, as days passed, the mysterious disappearances continued. One day, when she checked, every last note was gone. That was the final straw.

Grandma stormed out of her room, her voice cutting through the evening calm like a thunderclap. “Who stole the money?!” she yelled, her face a mix of anger and betrayal.

The house erupted into chaos. Grandpa set down his newspaper, startled. Mama rushed out of the kitchen, and Sara abandoned the dishes. I was told to stay in my room, but through the door, I could hear every word of the escalating argument.

Grandma demanded answers. Everyone was questioned.

Mama: “I was in the kitchen preparing dinner.”
Sara: “I was washing dishes by the hand pump.”
Grandpa: “I was sitting on my chair, reading the newspaper.”

Their answers seemed plausible, yet suspicion lingered in the air. No one would confess, of course. And so, the accusations began.

Sara, the outsider, was the first to bear the brunt. As a housemaid, she was an easy target. “You must have taken it,” Grandma accused, her voice sharp with frustration. Sara’s eyes widened in shock. “I didn’t steal anything!” she cried, her voice trembling with indignation and hurt.

No one believed her. Despite her protests, the weight of the accusations became too much. Tears streaming down her face, Sara fled the house, her cries echoing into the night.

A heavy silence followed. Grandpa stood, his face dark with anger. “You’ve gone mad, old woman! Accusing everyone like this won’t solve anything,” he barked before stomping away, leaving the tension to fester.

That left Mama, Grandma’s last suspect. Mama had been in the kitchen, just a few steps from the room where the box was kept. Her proximity made her an easy scapegoat.

“You were closest to the box,” Grandma accused. “It had to be you!”

Mama’s face drained of color. She tried to defend herself, her voice calm yet strained. “I didn’t do it, Ma. I wouldn’t steal from you.”

But the accusations kept coming, each one sharper than the last. Grandpa returned, his disapproving glare directed at Mama. She stood silently, taking the blame without another word. Later that night, I heard her muffled sobs as she sat alone in the kitchen.

Days turned into weeks. The house was tense and quiet, a far cry from its usual warmth. Then, one evening, the truth came out.

Grandpa had taken the money. The realization hit like a punch to the gut. He had been slipping a few bills here and there to buy cigarettes and liquor, never thinking anyone would notice.

When Grandma confronted him, he shrugged it off, offering no apology. He was the head of the family, after all. Who would dare hold him accountable?

Grandma began hiding the box more carefully after that, but the damage was done. Sara never returned, and though Mama resumed her duties, the shadows of those accusations lingered.

Years later, I still think about that time. Trust, once broken, is never quite the same. Mama may have forgiven, but I doubt she’s forgotten. And perhaps that’s the cruelest lesson of all: trust is not just a bond—it’s a fragile thread that can unravel with the slightest tug.

(This is a fictional story.)