Owning my own business had been my dream since I was a teenager. I didn’t come from money, didn’t have investors backing me, and didn’t inherit anything from family. Everything I built came from late nights, early mornings, and stubborn determination that refused to fade. After years of juggling odd jobs and saving every spare dollar, I finally opened a small grocery store in my neighborhood—a place that became my pride, my comfort, and my second home.

My employees weren’t just workers; they were people I trusted deeply. Most of them had been with me from the very beginning. Together we had faced every kind of challenge—economic downturns, storms that knocked out power for days, supply shortages, even the occasional rude customer who tested our patience to its limits. Through all of it, they never let me down. I always said I didn’t just have a staff—I had a family.

But then something strange happened. At first, I brushed it off. One day I noticed we were short a few bananas. The next day, a couple of apples were missing. Then pears, mangoes, peaches—always the best-looking fruit, the ripe ones customers usually grabbed first. At first, I told myself it was a miscount. Then I wondered if maybe we misplaced stock in the back room. Nothing unusual, I thought—every business has minor discrepancies.

But the disappearances became too consistent to ignore. Day after day, something else was missing. It wasn’t random anymore—it felt intentional. I began monitoring our inventory more closely and checking receipts. Nothing explained the shortage. The numbers didn’t match what was on the shelves, and it was happening far too regularly to be a coincidence.

So one night after closing, I sat my employees down. I tried to be calm and fair. I told them exactly what was happening and asked if anyone had noticed anything unusual. They all shook their heads, each insisting they hadn’t taken anything. Their reactions were sincere—confused, concerned, almost offended I would even imagine one of them could be responsible. I believed them because I had worked with them for years. But the missing products were real, and I couldn’t keep pretending the issue would solve itself.

Still, something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t blame them, but I couldn’t ignore the problem either. So I decided to find answers myself. That night, after everyone left, I quietly installed a small hidden camera in the back of the store. I didn’t tell a soul. Not even my most trusted employee. If someone was taking items after hours or sneaking in during a shift, the camera would catch it.

The next morning, before the store opened, I grabbed my phone, sat in the office, and opened the footage. Within seconds, my jaw dropped. I expected to see an employee taking fruit or maybe some stranger breaking in. But what I saw was something I never could have predicted.

In the recording, the back door moved slightly. It had been left just a bit ajar. Then something small and furry slipped inside. At first, I thought it was a raccoon. But when it stepped fully into the frame, I nearly dropped my phone.

It was a monkey.

A real, living, breathing monkey—fluffy, bright-eyed, and acting as if she owned the place.

She wasn’t nervous or scared. Instead, she peeked around, scanned the store, then walked straight to the fruit section like she was a regular customer. And not just any customer—a picky one. She examined bananas one by one, sniffed them, discarded one she didn’t like, and selected the perfect one. Then she grabbed a peach, sat comfortably between two crates, and ate it as if she’d been doing this for years.

At one point, an employee walked nearby. The monkey froze behind a box, crouched low, and stayed perfectly still until the coast was clear. Then she resumed her snack session. I kept watching in disbelief as she sampled two bananas, scraped the inside of a pineapple with her tiny hands, took a bite out of an avocado before losing interest, and finally settled on a few pears—her clear favorite.

I rewound the video three times just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. First, I felt shock. Then confusion. And then, unexpectedly, I laughed harder than I had in weeks. This little acrobat had been raiding my store almost every day, sneaking in unnoticed, choosing fruit with gourmet precision, and leaving without a trace. No wonder my employees looked baffled every time I confronted them.

The next day, I decided to get to the bottom of it. I arrived early and waited quietly near the back door. And just as the sun began to rise, I saw movement. There she was—strutting confidently toward the entrance like she had an appointment. She stopped when she saw me standing there, tilted her head, and squinted as if she were annoyed I had figured out her secret.

Slowly, I reached into my pocket and held out a banana. She hesitated at first, then stepped forward cautiously and took it from my hand. That moment sealed our unusual friendship.

From that day on, Fru-Fru—as I eventually named her—stopped stealing from the store. Instead, I left a small bowl of fruit by the back door just for her. My employees couldn’t believe it when I showed them the footage. Our hidden “thief” became a store legend and our unofficial mascot.

Now, not only do I have a shop I love and a dedicated team by my side, but also an unexpected little friend who wandered into my life through a crack in the back door—a monkey with a sweet tooth, a clever mind, and a personality big enough to make every day at the store a little brighter.