Break ins were common on the street I lived on. Just last week Mrs Brennan’s house had been ransacked along with the Smith family home. It always happened when no one was around. I guess no witnesses and no accidents that way.

Parking my car in the paved driveway I grabbed my brief case and house keys more absorbed in my phone to immediately notice my front door slightly ajar.

When me and my husband moved in last July rose bushes were planted in the flower beds under the living room window. Our new house was the pretty picture of suburban living. After being married three years and living in a tiny flat in the city, we had decided to settle down and start a family.

Three months in I got a job at the prestigious law firm McKinley and Short. We celebrated with champagne and my favorite macrons from the bakery down the street. Scott, my husband, knew how to find the quirkiest places at home and abroad.

Now the rose bushes had withered and died, between both our jobs we never had the time to maintain a garden. Reaching the door, my distracted eyes noticed how it was ajar. A lump formed in my throat. Shaking, I opened the door slowly. I knew better than to call out. If the perpetrator was still here I would be an idiot to make a noise. I needed to find Scott. He had finished early today.

My house was quiet. The living room had clearly been ransacked. Scott’s IPad was missing from the kitchen table and the ugly lamp Scott had picked out whilst we were in Spain. Gulping, I hurried into the bedroom scared at the unknown whereabouts of the love of my life. The drawers of the dresser were open. All of Scott’s underwear and socks were gone. I looked around the room to get a sense of how much had been stolen the obvious not hitting me yet. The TV was on the wall so I took a sigh of relief. Quickly, I pulled out my phone and dialed Scott’s number wanting to know if he was ok. No answer.

Convinced of foul play, I dialed 999. I talked the police through what had happened. The missing items, Scott’s missing car, the only evidence that he had been home was his wedding ring on the living room coffee table.

I’m not proud of it but I became hysterical. The women on the phone, Susan she said her name was, told me to call Scott again. She was under the impression that he had taken the items. This seemed insane to me.

Then I decided to put this woman’s obscene theory to rest. My cheeks red and my eyes puffy, I stormed back into the bedroom and yanked open his half of our wardrobe. Empty. Empty except one article of clothing. The shirt from his stag do. It was a cringe grey t-shirt with a big heart with the photo of us from our engagement party inside.

Hanging up on poor Susan, I dropped the phone. My shaking hands pulled the top off it’s hanger. Reality setting in I pushed my face, stained with running make up, into the soft material. I inhaled slowly. His smell of sandalwood lingered on the fabric. I sank slowly onto the bed.