My phone buzzed with a text from Rya. Just a photo of the family on the beach. Everyone tanned and smiling with the caption, “Wish you were here.” Followed by a laughing emoji. But I didn’t wish I was there. For the first time in years, I was exactly where I wanted to be. I deleted the message without responding and returned to my book. Tomorrow, Harold would deliver the papers. Tomorrow, the new reality would begin. But tonight, I was home. Really truly home in a way I hadn’t been for years. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows and shaking the bare branches of the oak tree. A storm was coming. I could feel it in the air. But I wasn’t afraid. My house was solid, built to weather whatever came its way. Just like me.
I settled deeper into my new sofa, pulled the soft throw blanket over my legs, and smiled. Let the storm come. I was ready for it. I heard the car doors slamming at 10:37 on Sunday morning. From my position at the kitchen table, where I sat reading the newspaper with my second cup of coffee, I could see Marcus’s SUV in the driveway through the window. They were back from paradise, tanned and rested, and probably expecting to find their house sparkling clean and their live-in servant grateful for their return. The front door handle rattled, then rattled again, more forcefully. That’s weird, I heard Marcus say. His voice muffled through the door. My keys not working. Try it again. Rya’s voice was sharp with irritation. Maybe you’re using the wrong one. More rattling. The sound of keys jingling of someone trying multiple keys in rapid succession.
None of them are working
None of them are working, Marcus said, and I could hear the confusion in his voice. It’s like the locks been changed. That’s impossible. Rya snapped. Who would change our locks? There was silence for a moment, then the sound of footsteps on the porch coming around toward the kitchen door. I stayed seated, calmly turning the page of the newspaper, though my heart was beating faster now. This was it, the moment of truth. The kitchen door handle turned, also locked, of course. Mom, Marcus called, knocking on the door. Mom, are you in there? The locks aren’t working. I took a slow sip of my coffee, savoring the taste. good coffee, the expensive kind I’d always wanted to try but had never bought because Rya complained about unnecessary expenses. I’d purchased it yesterday along with fresh cream and real maple syrup for my pancakes.
Small luxuries that added up to a new way of living.
