Open the door.
Close it.
Feel the key in my palm.
One evening, when Claire was six months old, I found a tiny smear of frosting in an old grout line near the cabinet, missed by every cleaning.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I knelt with a brush and scrubbed until the tile was white again.
I did not cry.
Claire watched from her little seat, kicking her feet, alive and impatient and bright.
When I finished, I picked her up and carried her to the front door.
The brass key turned smoothly.
The evening air came in warm and clean.
For the first time, the sound of a lock did not feel like a sentence.
It sounded like mine.
