Not to negotiate.

I went back to reclaim what was mine, and to collect the last of my son’s belongings before anyone could box them away as though they were trash — because that fear, the fear of what they might do to Leo’s things, was the thing that could not wait.

When I reached the front door and put my key toward the lock, it did not fit.

I stood on my own front porch and stared at a new silver deadbolt, gleaming and unfamiliar.

Julian had changed the locks — on a house he did not own, had never owned, had no legal right to occupy at all.

The arrogance of it was almost impressive.