It all started with one seemingly harmless family dinner. My brother Ben had brought his nine-year-old son, Jason, over for the evening—a laid-back get-together that should have ended as a cozy memory. Instead, it kicked off a miniature crime spree we never saw coming.
The Disappearing LEGO
My boys, Toby and Max, share my passion for creating elaborate LEGO dioramas. Every so often, we build a new scene—bank robbers evading cops, haunted castles, superhero team-ups—and tuck it away in the house, waiting for someone to spot it. It’s our little secret pastime.
That night, Jason discovered nearly all of them, his excitement filling the room. “Dad! Look! A creeper in Hogwarts! A bank robber behind the sofa!” It was sweet to see his enthusiasm—until the next morning, when Toby noticed some were missing.
“Mom,” Toby said grimly, “the Chewbacca mini-figure and that Minecraft creeper we hid in the library scene? Gone.”
We searched the entire house. Max was sure Jason must’ve taken them, but I told him not to jump to conclusions—maybe they’d just fallen behind a shelf. But when we couldn’t find them, it seemed likely Jason had snuck them out.
I called Ben that afternoon. He laughed it off, promising to return them next time he visited. “They’re just toys,” he said dismissively. But to me—and to my kids—those LEGO builds were more than toys: they were our bonding moments, captured in miniature plastic.
Broken Promises
One week turned into two, then a full month. Each time we talked, Ben claimed he’d “forgotten” to bring the missing LEGO sets back. My boys grew more and more upset, and honestly, so did I.
By Christmas, it was obvious he had no intention of returning anything. That’s when I decided enough was enough.
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