📍 Last January
My son James had just gone back to university after Christmas.
The house was quiet for the first time in weeks.
That was when I heard it.
A scratching sound. Inside the wall behind the kitchen.
It was 11 PM on a Tuesday.
I told myself it was the pipes.
I went to bed.
In the morning, I found the droppings under the sink.
Small. Dark. Scattered along the back of the shelf liner.
My stomach dropped.
The hardest part wasn't what I found.
It was what happened after.
📍 The Following Three Weeks
I set snap traps behind every appliance.
I bought two boxes of poison bait blocks and placed them in the garage.
I bleached every shelf in the pantry.
I drove to three different hardware stores in one weekend looking for something that would end it.
I spent $140 in January alone on products that didn't work.
I caught three mice in the first week.
And kept hearing them in the wall every single night after that.
Because catching a mouse doesn't close the door it came through.
The worst part wasn't the mice. It was what they did to me.📍 What I Didn't Tell Anyone
I live alone now. James is at university. The house is just mine.
And for three weeks in January, I was afraid to be in it after dark.
I checked every room before I went to bed.
I kept the kitchen light on all night so I wouldn't have to turn it on and see something run.
I stopped eating breakfast in the kitchen. I made coffee and took it to the living room.
I didn't tell my son. I didn't want him to worry.
I didn't tell my sister. I was embarrassed.
I just quietly fell apart in a house that was supposed to be my space.
The space I'd worked for. The space I'd lived in for fourteen years.
That felt like it belonged to something else.
I got through it. But it cost me something I didn't expect my sense of safety in my own home. I am not letting that happen again.