The key stayed in my pocket.
When my son left that evening, he paused at the front door.
“I don’t expect you to trust me again,” he said.
“Good,” I replied.
“Trust should never be expected.”
He nodded.
Then he walked to his car without asking when he could return.
A month earlier, I had driven through a storm believing that showing up was the purest proof of a mother’s love.
I understand it differently now.
Sometimes love carries gifts through six hours of rain.
Sometimes it lowers its hand before knocking.
And sometimes it opens a legal folder, takes back the key, and finally refuses to be treated like an obstacle standing between other people and what they believe they deserve.
