My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
I walked past the aisles of paint cans and garden hoses to the back wall, where the brass locks were displayed on pegboards.
I needed a deadbolt that would fit the old wooden door of my apartment, something with a heavy throw that would lock from both sides.
I reached out and touched a solid brass cylinder, the metal cold against my skin.
“The three-inch throw is the sturdiest,” the man from the counter said, coming down the aisle with his hands in his pockets.
“Does it come with three keys?” I asked.
“Two,” he said, pointing to the yellow box on the shelf. “But I can cut you a third one right now if you have the blank.”
“Two will be enough,” I said.
I lifted the box from the peg, its weight solid and comforting in my palm.
My mother had always kept a spare key to my apartment in her desk drawer, next to the insurance folders and her personal letters.
She had never used it without calling first, but the knowledge that she held it had always felt like a thin wire pulled tight between Pine Lane and my kitchen.
