For Fourteen Years My Son Lived Rent-Free in a House He Believed Was His
At apartment 2B, I slid the brass key into the lock.
The cylinder turned smoothly, with no sticking or squeaking.
I put the paper bag on the kitchen counter and peeled the backing off the blue shelf liner.
I smoothed the sticky sheet over the bottom shelf of the pantry cabinet, pressing out every bubble with my palm.
I set my coffee cup in the middle of the clean shelf and watched the gray gulls drift past the window.
By ten that night, the coast road beneath my window was dark and still.
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