My Mother-in-Law Changed the Locks

I knew something was wrong the moment my key stopped halfway in the lock.

I had been away for six days at a conference in Denver. I was tired, my feet hurt, and all I wanted was a hot bath in my own house.

I tried the key again. It didn't turn. I checked it under the porch light. It was my key. The same brass key I had used for nineteen years.

Then the front door opened, and my mother-in-law Patricia stood there in my bathrobe.

"Oh," she said. "You're back early."

"Patricia, why doesn't my key work?"

She smiled the way she always smiled at me, like I was a stain she was too polite to mention. "Greg and I decided it was time for new locks. Safety reasons. You understand."

"Where is Greg?"

"Asleep. He's had a long week. I really don't think you should wake him."

Behind her I could see my living room. My grandmother's quilt was gone from the couch. My photos were gone from the mantel. In their place stood a row of Patricia's porcelain angels.

"I live here," I said.

Patricia tilted her head. "Do you, dear? Because Greg tells me this is his house. And a son should be able to take care of his mother in his own house."

Then she closed the door in my face, and I heard the new lock click.