We started a family, as you do. Five years and three children. We brought them up well, yet through all that time my heist continued.

“Thou shalt not steal,” I told them.

“But you do,” said Lucy, the eldest, and my heart skipped a beat. I’d kept my hobby from my children; only my wife knew of it. Yet somehow Lucy had found out, and she knew that it troubled me. I laughed it off in front of the others, and had a private word with her later.

“I don’t steal big things,” I said. “But I pretend to steal small things. It’s my hobby.”

“I’m not stupid,” she said. “I saw you nicking, and it wasn’t pretend. I’ve been in the locked room, and seen everything you ever nicked.”

I paused. Lucy was far too inquisitive, and her head was clearly clouded up with morals. I never did give her a satisfactory explanation, but at least she gave up pestering me about it. Most of the time.

Another time Luke, my youngest, berated me for squashing a spider outside.

“You told us killing’s bad,” he said.

“Small things don’t count, stupid!” said Lucy. She grinned at me tauntingly and skipped away.

I looked down at the poor creature I’d killed. One of the legs protruding from the small mess was twitching. I couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of guilt. Luke was right, I thought; killing is killing, no matter who or what is killed. Or was Lucy right? Surely killing a lesser creature was a lesser sin. I stomped once more on the spider, to make sure it wasn’t suffering, and then went inside and upstairs to the comfort of my stash, where I could forget the silly little moral dilemma.

My heist continued. My trip to the supermarket became daily. My hobby was my escape, my sanity. I would spend hours locked in the room with my stash of relics, basking in the pleasure their memories give me. For each trophy has a story, and I can recall any of those stories if I try. I even know all their prices.

Lucy became interested in my hobby, and I slowly introduced her to my stash. She bought a notebook, and meticulously documented every trophy in it: the prices, the memories, the best-before dates. I took pleasure in this: my heist was being recorded for all generations to admire. Yesterday she finally finished the task; the list fills four and a half notebooks.

But then this morning she called the police. She showed them her notebooks; showed them the stash. She told them just how much money’s worth I had stolen, down to the last cent. They arrested me.

My wife has disowned me, pretending she knew nothing of it. Lucy isn’t talking to me. My other children don’t know what’s happened.

I don’t need to worry about a long imprisonment, or so says my lawyer; they see this as some sort of petty crime gone wild, not a great heist. My greatest punishment will not be from the law of the land; my punishment is more personal. My wife will never again admit to loving me. I may never have the chance to speak with my children once more. Worst of all, I will never again know the comfort of my stash.

I have been stripped of my Heaven, and cast into the depths of my Hell.