I waved goodbye to Marcus, from the living room window, watching him grow smaller and smaller until he finally disappeared around the bend.

He’s gone, I thought, as I leapt up and ran towards his room.

I knew I just had to try to find the cause of my son’s sudden change in behaviour. He’d become so withdrawn lately, well past the realms of puberty.

Ignoring the growing revulsion I felt for myself, I pawed through his underwear drawer, groping around for a clue. A baggie of powder, a wallet of condoms, anything.

I wished I could’ve just turned around and left, and respected the privacy that he’d earned, but I just couldn’t. He was all that I had, and I could feel him slipping away from me, every month that he continued down this enigmatic path.

Almost ready to give up, I began to close his cupboard doors when something on the top shelf, well above my head, caught my eye.

My husband’s box.

It had been 8 years since he passed, Edward, my husband. He’d only used it for filing documents, but it was an heirloom, dark, polished and finely crafted, wrought with intricate painting, and ebony and gold embellishments. Before I had finally decided to clear out his things, I told Marcus to go in, with Edward’s sister and take what he wanted. He had only come out with the case, filled with a few things. My sister-in-law had had to do most of the clearing, as I kept burst into tears every time I picked up something of his. I never even asked what had been taken.

With Marcus’s behaviour expelled from my mind, I was finally ready to look.

I left the room immediately, and promptly returned with and a large stool, and a larger glass of whiskey.

After taking down the box, I sat myself down on the floor, it and the whiskey before me. I opened it.

Dozens of Marcuses, Edwards and mes smiled back at me, as the photographs inside spilled out. Most of the pictures were no more than 10 or 15 years old, but I seem to have aged a lifetime. My eyes began to well. Carefully stacking the photos together, I put them aside, far from the whiskey. I took a sip.

Underneath, there were figurines, a world’s best dad medal, a crossword book, and other small items. However, what really caught my eye was a sturdy, black camera. Although dated, it was an expensive looking type. I’d never seen it before.

I pressed the ‘on’ button, expecting the battery to have long died out, but to my surprise, it sprang to life.

Oh no, I thought. He’s been stealing.

This must’ve cost a couple grand, at least, which he, at 17, definitely couldn’t afford. Fiddling about, I tried to find saved photos, just to confirm my suspicions. Taking a long swig of whiskey, I opened them.

My heart stopped.

I was wrong.

Marcus hadn’t stolen anything.