It Wasn’t About the Flag
It was never about the flag.
It was about what it meant to me.
I hung it up the day I moved in—not to make a statement, just to feel grounded. A familiar thread in a brand-new life. New house. New street. New faces watching from porches. I was the outsider, and we all knew it.
It wasn’t even a full-sized flag—just a modest one, clipped neatly to the porch post. Nothing flashy. I didn’t expect it to draw attention. Definitely didn’t expect it to disappear.
But on Tuesday morning, I stepped out barefoot in boxers, coffee steaming in one hand… and there it wasn’t.
Gone.
Just an empty bracket where it had been—and below it, lying square on the welcome mat, was a folded twenty-dollar bill and a yellow sticky note that said:
“Nothing personal. Hope this covers it.”
No name. No apology. Just a tidy little transaction where something personal had been taken.
I stood there, holding that twenty between my fingers like it was evidence in a crime I didn’t understand. My mind spun—anger, confusion, maybe even sadness—but the feeling that stuck was heavier than all of them.
Disappointment.
Not because of the flag. Not even because someone took it. But because someone saw what mattered to me—and decided it mattered less than whatever made them take it.
I get it. I’m not from here. I rolled in from Arizona after retirement and bought the smallest house on a quiet street in a town where everybody seems to already know everybody. I didn’t grow up here. Didn’t share their churches, their history, or their politics.
But I came for peace.
And now, I’m left wondering what peace really costs.
