You were watching, weren't you?

You knew when the apartment would be empty, and when you'd have time. Time enough to empty the folders and the accordion file.  Time enough to find the key to the strong box so you wouldn't have to try and force it open like you did the front door.

Somehow you knew you'd have enough time to consider all your choices. Or did you have help? Many hands make light work, you know. You left a perfectly good credit card behind...and an unused book of checks. So I guess you're not into identity theft.

But it was identity theft. My identity. My mother's identity. My grandparents' identities.

To you, it was a carat's worth of diamonds shaped like a heart. How much will the pawnbroker give you for my grandfather's 50th anniversary gift to my grandmother?

To you, it was a bulky gold and silver ring with a small diamond in the middle. To my grandfather, it represented 70 years in the Masonic order. To my mother, it represented her hero.

To you, they were tiny rings with shiny red stones. Garnets, by the way, not rubies. And that's rose gold, not copper. And they belonged to my great-great-great grandparents. Matching wedding rings from 1883.

To you, they were just two gold rings with a few diamonds. To me, it was what my father could afford to marry my mother. She's a widow...has been for nearly 20 years. Those rings were supposed to be for my daughter. They weren't blinding in brilliance, but they were beautiful.

My mother has so little. Too young for Medicare, too old to be working the labor intensive job she has that helps her break even every month.

Do you work? Do you steal to feed a habit, or were you desperate to feed your family?

I should tell you - we're not scared. We're angry. I don't think you'll be back because you have no interest in taking the social security information and birth certificate of a dead man...or a perfectly good credit card. You took what you could pocket and pawn. And I hope you do pawn those rings. Because then we stand a chance of getting them back.

I'm not scared of you. Whether it's one of you or three. What I am scared of is that if your pawn broker, the guy who gives you money for rings with no questions asked, will decide a dinky rose gold ring with a garnet isn't worth squat. And you'll toss it in a ditch. Or that 70 years of respect and honor in the form of a ring is sitting on the table next to your crack pipe.

I want to feel sorry for you. But I can't. Not right now.

To you, it's just gold. A few rings in a box. To me, they represented love and family. Irreplaceable.