The Night the Burglar Came to My Room

It was a typical evening in the Caylor household. Dad was at work finishing his rounds and Mom was getting us ready for bed. Bath time went smoothly and it was not until I went to put on my pj’s that things got crazy.

I ran down the hall (we had bath time in my parent’s bathroom) and flipped on the light to Sarah (younger sister) and mine’s room. I picked out a sweet set of jammies for the both of us and ran back to hang out with Mom while Sarah finished her bath. After Sarah was squeaky clean and in the pj’s I brought her we walked into the hallway.

Mom abruptly stopped and stared into our bedroom with a very concerning look of trepidation. It freaked me out a little bit at age four or five or six –obviously my memory is excellent—to see her look so frightened. Before I realized what was happening she had grabbed the butcher knife from our kitchen and was quizzing Sarah and I on whether or not we had left our bedroom light on in the most frantic of whispers. I sure was not going to tell the hysterical woman wielding the glistening knife that I was the culprit. I watched anxiously as Mom inched toward our doorway. A few steps before reaching the threshold she had a change of heart and dropped the knife back off at the kitchen on her way to dragging us barefoot down the gravel driveway to our neighbor’s the Michaelcheck’s.

The moments following are blurry and I don’t remember any distinct details. My memory picks back up with me standing at my parent’s feet and looking up at their, what seemed giant at the time, silhouettes. I remember my Dad had arrived by that point and the grown-ups were standing around about to call the police about the burglar. Now it all clicked and I realized that Mom thought the light was on from a burglar. I knew that the cops meant serious trouble and that I had better speak up even though I feared the worst kind of punishment was about to be brought down on my head. I meekly tugged at Dad’s coat, and if you know me you know I do not do anything meekly so this was highly out of character for me, and timidly confessed my guilt in a barely audible tone.

There was instant relief that our home remained criminal free, but that was immediately followed by anger at me wasting their time. I reasonably explained my hesitation due to the intimidating appearance Mom gave off when I thought I was going to be chopped to little pieces for forgetting to turn the light off upon exiting my bedroom. They understood but sternly lectured me all the same about the consequences of not owning up to things. Believe me I thoroughly learned my lesson that night. We trekked back to our house and I slept easy knowing that the giant butcher knife was sheathed.