02-05/02 Chapter 503 Something I've Done That I Can't Outrun
You’re much better now, thank God, and so am I. I’m still left with this annoying trace of a cough, though. I don’t remember ever taking this long to recover from the flu.
The week itself was calm, blessedly so. A steady routine, the kind I love. You went to swimming lessons twice this week and you’re really enjoying it. The last time, though, there was a different instructor, and that made you a little hesitant at first. She was stricter than the one you were used to—not as warm or affectionate—but she taught you some important things in the water, and in the end, everything was fine. Before your class, while your dad still hadn’t arrived, I bought a chocolate cake they were selling at the gym, and we shared it together, just the two of us, savoring that little moment before you got in the pool.
This week I only went to the store once, so my aunt could go to her physical therapy. And guess what? That was the day I got scammed. I was robbed, not at gunpoint, but robbed nonetheless.
I was at the store when a woman came in and started browsing. After a while, I got up and asked if it was her first time there. She said no, that she had already bought things there twice. I assumed it must have been with Rosely, and that made me oddly happy because I thought a sale was coming.
She started setting some pieces aside, but in a strange, random way. At one point, she even swapped a boys’ youth piece for a girls’ one, saying it was larger though they weren’t even the same category. In the end, she chose three or four items that totaled R$65. She even commented, “Wow, that’s quite a bit.” Wanting to secure the sale, I offered to round it down to R$60, and she immediately agreed.
She handed me a R$200 bill.
I’ve probably held a R$200 bill once in my life. I’m naïve when it comes to these things, a little too trusting. I swear the thought crossed my mind—what if it’s fake?—but I brushed it aside and started looking for change. The register only had R$70. I needed another R$70 and I happened to have exactly that amount in my backpack. Exact change. I gave her the money from my own pocket, planning to reimburse myself once more cash came into the store.
The next day, my aunt messaged me saying she thought the bill might be fake. But my aunt is an ambulant exaggeration—dramatic, hyperbolic—so I didn’t take it too seriously. Then she told me my uncle had stopped by the store, also found the bill suspicious, and took it to the bank to check.
When I arrived, he had already been there. The money was returned. It was fake.
My aunt was furious, not at me, of course, but because the store had essentially been robbed, and it had happened on the exact day and time I was there. She said that if it had been her, she wouldn’t have fallen for it, she had sensed something was off from the start. So yes, it was incredibly bad luck that this scammer showed up on the one single shift I covered. What can you do?
I was upset too, but I refused to let it ruin me. I lost R$200 and a few pieces, but I wasn’t about to let a dishonest person turn my day into hell or steal my peace. I wasn’t going to donate my emotions or my time to someone like that. Thank God I work hard. Money can be recovered.
Still, of course it’s frustrating. I work hard to build what we have. I give up time—time I could be playing with you, enjoying life to work and make things happen. And then someone comes along and takes what’s ours. That’s infuriating.
But I made a promise beside your ICU bed: if you came out alive, I would never again lose my mind over money. And I’ve kept that promise. Not because I force myself to but because something genuinely changed inside me. I simply don’t spiral anymore. This would have ruined my entire day before, just as it did hers. But not now.
Within a day, I recovered what we had lost and reimbursed the store’s cash so my aunt wouldn’t take the hit. She spends hours sitting in that chair, selling a handful of pieces. What was stolen represented one or two full days of her work. It wasn’t fair to her. But I fixed it.
The truth is, there’s something in life people call karma. I don’t really believe in karma but sometimes things happen that feel like it, even if they’re just coincidences.
I’m going to tell you something now that I’ve never told anyone. Not my parents. Not your father. You’ll be the only one who knows.
I’ve stolen before.
I was about eight years old. I learned to read very early—around five—and I’ve always loved reading. That love began with Turma da Mônica comics. I adored them. When we traveled to Caraguatatuba, my mom would buy several for me to read. Back then, money wasn’t like it is today, and comics were expensive. When she bought new ones, it felt like a gift.
Today, kids can read endlessly—comics are cheap, online, everywhere. We spend fortunes trying to pull children away from screens with books. But back then, it wasn’t like that.
I devoured comics. My mom would tell me to slow down, to savor them, because that was all I had. But when you love a story, reading slowly feels impossible.
There was a shop in São Paulo that exchanged comics. For every thirty you brought in, you could choose ten new ones. One day, while my mom was trading them, I slipped an extra new comic from the collection and hid it under my clothes.
I don’t know how she sensed it, but she did. In the car, she asked, very seriously,
“Natascha, how many comics do you have there?”
I counted one less. She let it go. I remember the adrenaline, the fear of being caught, punished, grounded. I remember it vividly. It wasn’t good. I shouldn’t have done it.
But it didn’t end there.
Years later, when I started traveling to the U.S. to resell items in Brazil, I did it again, once in a while. At Walmart. At outlets. Once, at a Tommy Hilfiger store, the alarm went off and I walked out fast, sweating, heart racing.
I didn’t need to do that. Why was I doing it?
That scare was enough to make me swear I’d never do it again. Being caught in a foreign country? Deported? Never being allowed back into a place I loved? Over something so stupid? The shame alone would’ve destroyed me.
Then came 2018, when I moved to San Diego. I promised myself I wouldn’t ask my parents for money. I would work. I would survive on my own. I had chosen to be there. It felt fair.
But San Diego is brutally expensive. Rent, food, gas, the car, sometimes the money simply didn’t add up. And when something had to give, it was food. I rationed it.
I worked at the Marriott, and my boss was kind enough to let me eat the leftovers from breakfast. At first, it was great. Eventually, surviving on waffles and hamburger patties turned my stomach.
Things improved when I got a second nanny job. The mother let me eat dinner with the kids, and that helped immensely. But with the first family, I wasn’t allowed to eat anything. And when the money ran out, I went back to stealing food, leaving items unscanned at self-checkout.
I told myself it was “necessity.” It wasn’t.
Since when is stealing more justifiable than swallowing your pride and asking your parents for help? My father would much rather send me money for groceries than know his daughter was stealing food. He would have been deeply disappointed. Honesty, especially with money, has always been one of his strongest values.
One day, I stopped myself. I drew a hard line. Enough. No excuse made it right. I quit. Completely. I never did it again. And if I could, I would return every single item I took.
I knew it was wrong. I worked on myself because I knew I was becoming a worse person each time. Today, I wouldn’t take a piece of candy that wasn’t mine.
I regret it deeply.
So how could I crucify the woman who did the same to me? She used a few items as camouflage to take real money from me. I don’t know what was going through her mind and I don’t need to know. She stole from me. But I’ve stolen from others too. Even if most were large companies, it doesn’t justify it. And what about the comic shop owner?
So yes, this time, life paid me back in the same currency.
Call it karma. Call it coincidence. But it didn’t feel right to rage over something I once did myself.
All I hope is that she evolves. That one day she realizes what she did was wrong and chooses to change. That’s all we can hope for.
The real problem is people who do wrong things and don’t believe they’re wrong at all.
I hope you never do what I did. But you will make mistakes. What matters is recognizing them and choosing to grow.
Growth is always the answer.
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