“Patricia, I’m already late.”
“Then you’d better take them with you.”
I kissed both children goodbye, stepped onto the porch with them, locked my door, and walked to my car. Rachel remained standing there looking genuinely shocked while I drove to the garden center and bought three ferns and a blue ceramic planter I had wanted for months.
Later that week, I decided to bake oatmeal cookies.
I opened the lower cabinet where my heavy stand mixer always lived.
Empty.
I checked the pantry even though I knew it wouldn’t be there. Then I noticed a faint scuff near the front entrance.
David had a spare key for emergencies.
Apparently Rachel had decided a school bake sale qualified.
I didn’t call her.
There was no point participating in the argument I could already predict: she had only borrowed it, she had meant to return it, I was making too much of nothing.
Instead, I called a locksmith.
Two hours later, Tom arrived in a white service van and replaced every exterior lock.
The new deadbolt closed with a heavy metallic click that was absurdly satisfying.
I kept one key.
A second went into a secure outdoor lockbox.
The third went into my jewelry case.
David got none.
Two days later, I was reading when I heard metal scraping uselessly against my front lock.
The sound continued for nearly a minute.
Then came pounding.
Rachel stood outside holding an enormous basket of dirty blankets.
“Your lock is broken.”
“It isn’t broken.”
She stared.
“It’s new.”
“Why would you change the locks? David is supposed to have a key.”
“For emergencies.”
She shifted the laundry basket against her hip.
“I needed your mixer.”
“That wasn’t an emergency.”
“I was going to return it.”
“You entered my house without permission.”
Her cheeks flushed.
“You weren’t answering.”
“If I don’t answer, Rachel, that does not become permission.”
She looked past me toward the laundry room.
“Well, since I’m here, can I run these through your big washer?”
“No.”
Her eyes widened.
“No?”
“No.”
“You’re seriously doing this because of some dishes?”
I looked at her calmly.
“This is about my house.”
Then I closed the door.
An hour later, David called.
“Mom, we need to talk.”
This time, I agreed.
Because eventually even the person in the middle has to decide whether he’s standing between two women or standing on the wrong side of a boundary.
Chapter 4
My son finally heard why the old pattern had ended
David came that evening looking exhausted. He sat on my sofa with both elbows resting on his knees and rubbed the back of his neck before speaking.
“Rachel is furious.”
“I assumed.”
“She says you locked her out.”
“I changed my locks.”
“She says that’s basically the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
He sighed.
“And you refused the laundry.”
