I have never really considered myself a thief. Sure, I’ve occasionally walked off with a coworker’s pen or snagged a piece of candy from the dish at the bank. Nothing serious. Well—there was the time I ate the other half of my husband’s bagel he was saving for the next morning, but honestly, I was starving.
That’s why it pains me to remember a moment from my early teenage years when I actually pick pocketed my mom’s credit card.
The Pull of Peer Pressure
I was a fairly typical teen, if such a thing exists. I thought I lived in a middle-class family, comfortably tucked in the suburbs. My parents were hard workers, determined to provide a better life for their children than they’d known during the Great Depression.
Then came middle school—and with it, the tidal pull of peer pressure. Suddenly, my friends seemed far more influential than my parents in shaping what I believed was necessary to be “cool” or part of the in crowd.
In those days, fashion icons like Jordache and Vanderbilt jeans reigned supreme. A curling iron for Christmas was a luxury, and a Bulova watch? Practically royalty-level. I didn’t have any of these things. Well, okay—I finally got a curling iron before my freshman year. Until then, I made do with my blow dryer, long after my friends were already perfecting their Farrah Fawcett flips.
I can’t fully explain why the pressure felt so heavy, but it motivated me in ways that now make me shake my head.
The Great Credit Card Caper
One day, driven by an intense and entirely irrational belief that I might die if I didn’t buy some coveted item—what it was, I truly cannot remember—I slipped my mother’s store credit card into the breast pocket of my linen blouse.
Don’t worry. I had it all planned out.
My 15-year-old brain was convinced this was brilliant: I’d buy the item, use my allowance to pay her back when the bill came, and no one would ever know.
Before heading to the mall, I took one last look in the mirror and decided my blouse was too wrinkled to be seen in public. I set up the ironing board in my room just as my mom walked in from chatting with our neighbor. She started telling me about their conversation while I turned on the iron and waited for it to heat.
As the steam rose, I slipped off the blouse and placed it on the board. I focused on the sleeves, then the collar, smoothing out every wrinkle as Mom continued her story. When I picked up the blouse to flip it over, the credit card flew out of the pocket—rotating in slow motion, like a scene from a movie—and landed at my mother’s feet.
The Moment of Truth
My brain scrambled for excuses:
- I found it on the floor and forgot to return it?
Nope. - I was just… borrowing it?
Not believable.
So I did the only thing I could think of: I pretended nothing had happened.
To her credit, my mother said nothing at first. I kept talking as if her credit card hadn’t just somersaulted across the room. Then she looked me square in the eye and said, “You don’t expect me to ignore that, do you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I would appreciate it if you did.”
We both burst into laughter. Big, can’t-catch-your-breath laughter. Once we recovered, I explained myself and apologized. She listened—patiently, graciously. I never did make the forbidden purchase, and I have no memory of what the coveted item even was.
What I do remember is this: in a moment where she could have shamed me, my mother chose forgiveness and humor.
The Grace That Stays With Us
Throughout my life, my mother has shown incredible grace under stress. She taught me, through countless moments big and small, what it means to forgive, to understand, and to be generous with compassion.
I’m not a teenager anymore—thank goodness—but the lesson remains. Even though one little pickpocket moment didn’t make me a true thief, it was the character behind the act—and my mother’s response—that shaped who I became.
It turns out that while our mistakes may be fleeting, the grace of our mothers stays with us forever.