She reached the porch, stepped past me into the warmth of the hall, and turned around. We looked at each other for a long moment, listening to the agonizing sound of our son weeping at the gates of the paradise he’d destroyed.

Linda reached out, grabbed the heavy brass handle, and pulled the door shut.

Clack.

The deadbolt slid into place. The house was quiet, warm, and secure.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever watched her do. But as she walked into the kitchen to put the milk in the refrigerator, I knew one thing for certain.

We were finally safe. We were the masters of our own castle, and the drawbridge would stay permanently raised.

Some wounds heal, but they leave scars that ache every time it rains. And sometimes the only way to protect the life you’ve built is to know exactly when to change the locks.

THE END.