The latch gave with a sharp crack. I stumbled into the hallway expecting darkness, disorder, or some sign that my friend needed help. Instead, warm lamplight filled the living room, and the air smelled like chamomile tea and honey.
My best friend was sitting on the old couch. She was alive, unharmed, and staring at me with swollen eyes. A tissue box sat open on the coffee table. Beside her was another woman holding one of my mother’s chipped blue mugs.
It took me several seconds to understand that the woman was my mother.
They looked as though they had been crying together for hours. My mother set down her tea and quietly said, “You’re home early.” The familiar phrase sounded so strange in that room that I wondered whether I had walked into someone else’s life.
My friend stood. Relief crossed her face first, followed by alarm. “I was going to tell you,” she said.
I held up the useless key. “Tell me what? Why was I locked out of my own house?”
Neither answered immediately. My fear was turning into anger, but beneath it was something more painful: the suspicion that the two people I trusted most had created a private world and deliberately excluded me. My mother reached toward me, then stopped when she saw my expression.
“Please sit down,” she said. “There’s an explanation, but first we owe you an apology.”
