I often order food delivery when I’m too exhausted to cook for my kids, and over time, we got to know the delivery guy in our area pretty well. His name is Marco, a friendly man in his late twenties with an easygoing smile. My kids adore him because he always takes a moment to chat with them, ask about their day, or give them a high five before leaving. It had become a small but cherished part of our routine.
However, the last time Marco came by, something was different
I heard his car pull up as usual, but when I opened the door, I barely recognized him. His hands trembled slightly as he shoved the food bag into my arms, his eyes darting around as if he were being watched. His usual warm demeanor was absent. He didn’t greet the kids, didn’t exchange pleasantries. Instead, he turned on his heel and practically sprinted back to his car, tires screeching as he pulled away.
I stood there, stunned. The kids, sensing something was off, looked up at me with wide eyes. “What’s wrong with Marco?” my youngest asked.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I murmured, closing the door and walking into the kitchen. As I placed the bag on the counter, something caught my eye—writing on the back of the bag.
In shaky handwriting, it read:
“Check your cameras. Someone was watching your house.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
I didn’t have security cameras. But I sure as hell was about to get some.
That night, after putting the kids to bed, I locked every door and window twice before calling a friend who worked in home security. The next day, he helped me install cameras around the house—one facing the front door, another covering the driveway, and a couple in the backyard.
