I took the money, and I'm so sorry.

Dear Sacred Posts,

My name is… well, it doesn't matter. Let's just say I'm someone who messed up, big time. And I need to get this off my chest before it eats me alive. This is a confession, I guess. It's about guilt. A lot of it.

It happened about five years ago. I was working a dead-end job at a small grocery store. Minimum wage, scraping by. Always one paycheck away from disaster. My wife, Sarah, was pregnant with our first kid. We were excited, terrified, all those things you're supposed to be. But mostly, we were stressed. Money was tight. Really tight. We were arguing more than usual, snapping at each other over stupid things like the price of diapers or who used the last of the milk.

One night, after closing, I was counting the cash. Just me and the manager, Mr. Henderson, a nice, older guy who always had a smile and a kind word. He trusted me. He’d leave me alone to do the counting, and he’d go stock shelves or something. He was a good man, Mr. Henderson. Deserved better than what happened.

That night, the register was up. Way up. It was a busy day, apparently. And as I was counting the bills, stacking them neatly, the thought just popped into my head. So simple, so clear. Just take some. Just a little. Enough to cover the bills, maybe buy Sarah something nice for the baby. She deserved it.

I fought it. I swear I did. I told myself it was crazy, that I'd get caught, that it wasn't worth it. But the need was so strong. The pressure of everything crashing down on us… it was suffocating. And the money was right there. Just sitting there. Waiting.

So I did it. I took five hundred dollars. Five hundred. It felt like a fortune back then. I stuffed it in my pocket, my heart pounding like a drum solo. I finished the count, gave it to Mr. Henderson, and went home. I barely slept that night. I kept seeing his face, his trusting smile. I felt like the scum of the earth.

Sarah was happy when I told her I’d gotten a small bonus at work. I lied right to her face. We paid the bills, bought some baby stuff. For a few days, things were… easier. But the guilt was always there, a knot in my stomach that wouldn't go away.

Mr. Henderson didn't say anything the next day. Or the day after. I figured he hadn't noticed. Maybe the store's accounting was so messed up that nobody would ever know. I started to relax a little. But then, a week later, the district manager came in. They did a full audit. And they found it. The five hundred dollars was missing.

I knew they’d be watching me. But they didn’t say anything to me directly. They started questioning everyone. Employees were getting worried. The atmosphere was tense. I wanted to confess then, but I was too scared. I was afraid of getting fired, of being arrested, of Sarah finding out the truth. So I stayed silent.

Eventually, they let it go. They never found out who took the money. Maybe they figured it was just an honest mistake. Or maybe they didn't want to make a big deal out of it. I don't know. But Mr. Henderson… he was never quite the same. He seemed sadder, more withdrawn. He stopped smiling as much. And it was all my fault.

I carried that guilt with me for years. I couldn't look Mr. Henderson in the eye. I eventually quit that job, partly because I couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore. We moved to a different town a couple years later. New job, new life. But the guilt stayed with me.

Sarah never found out. I kept it buried deep inside, a secret that gnawed at me. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'd wake up in a cold sweat, the memory of that night flooding back. The sound of the bills rustling in my pocket, the weight of the lie. I thought about telling her a million times, but I was afraid. Afraid of what she would think of me, afraid of ruining our marriage.

I tried to make up for it in other ways. I worked hard, I was a good husband and father. I tried to be a better person. I donated to charities, I volunteered my time. But nothing seemed to erase the stain. The five hundred dollars was always there, a shadow hanging over me.

Mr. Henderson retired a few years ago. I saw him once, at a grocery store in my old town. I almost went up to him to confess, to apologize. But I couldn't do it. I chickened out. I just stood there, watching him, feeling like a coward. He looked older, more tired. I wonder if he ever thought about that missing money, if he ever suspected me.

Now, I'm writing this. I don't know why. Maybe I just need to tell someone, even if it's anonymous. Maybe I'm hoping for some kind of forgiveness, even though I don't deserve it. Maybe I just want to finally acknowledge the wrong I did. I stole money from a good man, and I lied to my wife. That’s who I am. That’s what I did.

I don’t know if this will make me feel better. Probably not. But at least it's out there. Maybe someone will read this and learn from my mistake. Don't let guilt eat you alive. Do the right thing, even when it's hard. Because the consequences of your actions can last a lifetime. I really regret everything. I wish I could go back and change it.

If I ever saw Mr. Henderson again, I'd tell him the truth. I’d apologize. And I'd pay him back, with interest. But I doubt that will ever happen. So, this is it. My confession. My plea for… something. I don't even know what.

Thank you for listening.