I took the money

I need to get this out. I haven't told anyone, not even my wife. It's been eating me alive for… God, almost ten years now.

I worked at a hardware store back then, right after college. It wasn't my dream job, obviously. Who dreams of selling hammers and nails? But it was a job, and I needed the money. My wife – then my girlfriend, Sarah – was pregnant. We were terrified. Neither of us had real jobs, and suddenly we were about to be responsible for another human being.

The store was a small, family-owned place. Old Mr. Henderson owned it, and he was a good guy. Tough, but fair. He paid minimum wage, but he also gave us free coffee and let us take home damaged goods. He trusted us. That’s the part that makes me sick.

Every night, I was in charge of counting the register and locking up. It was simple. Count the cash, compare it to the sales reports, and put the money in the safe. I did it hundreds of times. Never a problem.

Then came the day my car broke down. The day Sarah started having really bad pains, and we didn’t know if it was a false alarm or the real thing. Money was tight, really tight. We were already behind on rent, and the car repair place wanted $500 just to look at the engine.

That night at the store, after everyone else had left, I counted the register. I don’t even remember how much was in there, maybe a little over a thousand dollars. I did the math over and over, trying to figure out how we were going to make it through the next month. Sarah called, crying, saying the pains were getting worse, and she was scared. I hung up, feeling like the world was crushing me. I had to do something.

That’s when I saw it. An idea, a terrible, awful idea, blooming in my head like a poisonous flower.

I recounted the money. I wrote down a number – two hundred dollars lower than the actual total. I took two hundred dollars from the till and stuffed it into my pocket. I told myself I would pay it back. As soon as I got my next paycheck, I’d put it back in. Nobody would ever know.

I locked up the store, drove straight to Sarah, and we went to the hospital. Everything was okay. It was a false alarm. But the relief I felt was mixed with a gut-wrenching guilt.

I used the two hundred dollars to fix the car. It wasn’t enough for everything, but it was enough to get it running again. Sarah never knew where the money came from.

I told myself I’d pay it back. But then the bills piled up. The baby came. Diapers, formula, doctor visits… the money was gone before I even got paid. And then I was scared. Scared of getting caught. Scared of what would happen to Sarah if they found out I was a thief. So, I didn't pay it back.

I left that job a few months later. I told Mr. Henderson that Sarah and I were moving closer to her family. He shook my hand and wished us luck. He said he was sorry to see me go.

I’ve carried this around ever since. Two hundred dollars. It doesn’t seem like much, but it’s ruined me. Every time I see someone struggling, every time I hear about a small business closing, I think about Mr. Henderson and that hardware store. I think about the trust I betrayed.

I try to be a good person now. I work hard, I’m honest (mostly), and I take care of my family. But the guilt is always there, a dark spot in my soul. I should have just asked for help. I should have told Mr. Henderson what was going on. He would have understood.

I don't know why I'm writing this now. Maybe I just need to confess it to someone, even if it’s just to the internet. Maybe I’m hoping for some kind of forgiveness, even though I don’t deserve it. I just... I needed to say it.

I'm a thief. And I'm sorry.