What the Robbery Took After I Thought It Was Over

When the clerk at booth 18 asked whether I had my vehicle registration, I answered yes without thinking twice. It had always been inside the leather-bound portfolio that came with my truck, tucked into the glove box where I rarely had reason to look for it.

I was at the DMV in Alpharetta on a Saturday morning because my driver’s license had been inside the purse stolen from my truck the week before. My wallet and personal information were now in someone else’s possession, so I needed more than a replacement card. I also wanted a new license number. The copy of my birth certificate I had brought did not meet the requirement. The clerk explained that I would need the original document or another form of identification and told me my vehicle registration could be used instead. I left the counter and walked across the parking lot, expecting to return within a few minutes.

I opened the passenger door, leaned across the seat, and reached into the glove box. The portfolio was gone. I moved the few papers that remained and checked beneath them, although there was almost nowhere else to look. For a moment, I continued searching because I did not want to accept what was in front of me. The portfolio had not been misplaced. Whoever stole my purse had also opened the glove box and taken the case that held my registration and other vehicle documents. I had driven the truck for an entire week without knowing anything else was missing.

During that week, I had done what people are told to do after a theft. I canceled my credit cards, filed a police report, contacted my insurance company and changed the locks on my house because my keys had been inside the purse. Each completed task brought some relief. I believed I was getting ahead of the damage, one phone call and one form at a time. The open glove box showed me how little I still knew. I had come to the DMV to prove who I was, only to discover that the people who stole from me had also taken one of the documents I needed to do it. The portfolio was not the most valuable item they took, but its absence revealed something I had not been prepared to face. Someone had searched through more of my truck than I understood, handled my personal documents, and taken something I would not know was missing until the day I needed it. Standing beside the truck, I was tired of retelling the story. I was tired of proving what belonged to me and explaining why it needed to be replaced.

Most of all, I was tired of discovering how another person’s few minutes inside my truck could continue disrupting my life long after they were gone. I still had to remember the details, produce the right documents and speak clearly to people who were simply doing their jobs. I may have looked composed when I walked back inside, but I was still trying to understand how much of my life a stranger had touched.

I closed the glove box and sat in the truck long enough to gather myself. Then I walked back across the parking lot, unsure whether the portfolio would be the last thing I discovered missing. I do not remember exactly what I told the clerk when I sat down again at booth 18 or how I explained that another document had been taken. I only remember that I still needed a driver’s license and still did not know what else I had not yet discovered was gone.