Dear Mr. Burglar,

It’s been a week now since you invited yourself into my apartment, while me and my husband were gone for a bike ride. Of course, you knew that. You probably saw us pedaling away, Sunday morning, and, after quickly scanning the area for possible witnesses, you unlocked our flimsy door with one of those skeleton keys.

But boy, you were in for a surprise!

So I’m writing this letter because I have some things to say:

SORRY for not keeping cash in plain sight. Dude, what were you expecting? You broke into the house of two millennials immigrants coming from a poor country. Being money-savvy is second nature. Besides, my husband hides cash in the weirdest places. You probably walked right by the dough you were hoping to snatch.

YOU PIECE OF… I get it, you were in a hurry. The burglary business is build on agility, but you should have at least bother to open my wallet before taking it. I’m notorious for not caring money. Instead, you took my ID – I kind of hated the photo anyway – my bellowed business cards, library card, credit card and some chewing gum. I love my Big Red.

THANKS for not turning the whole place upside down. Sunday is cleaning and cooking day for us, so I really appreciate not having to do extra work. You could have taking off your shoes tough; sweeping the bedroom carpet felt like destroying forensic footwear evidence.

I HATE YOU for taking my laptop and mobile phone. Good thing I didn’t have any nude pics in there! What I did have were hard-worked articles I can’t replicate, family pictures and resolution lists. Next time I’m at a job interview and the “Where are you seeing yourself five years from now?” question pops up, I’m going to blame it on you. P.S. I hope you enjoyed that piece on body-shaming.

I HATE YOU EVEN MORE for leaving us feeling unsafe in a cozy house on a nice neighborhood. For giving me nightmares that kept me awake and terrified, wondering if on my way to the bathroom I would run into you or a fellow of yours. Constantly looking over the shoulder it’s something one does at night, on a darkened street, not in your kitchen, while chopping veggies for dinner.

STILL, I OWE YOU ONE. Seriously! Without a laptop and a cell phone, I was left with a lot of free time on my hands. So I went to the park. I rode my bike. I listen to podcasts on my husbands phone, which he kindly pass on to me. This last week felt like a “staycation”, one that forced me to get creative not only with my spare hours, but with my romantic life as well. Since texting was out of question, we left each other hand-written sweet notes. We were more eager to get together at the end of the day. We traded Netlix for talking and something else (cough, cough!).

Whoever you may be, please consider changing careers. Judging by the outcome of your actions in this particular case, you might be better of giving life-coaching classes than targeting people’s houses.

With sincere gratitude,

Your latest victim!


I am a 25-year-old Romanian journalist who currently lives the American Dream in the buzzing city of Chicago. When I'm not doing social media gigs, I write about everything under the sun from immigration to marriage and beauty. Want to know more? Head over to my blog:

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