In the kitchen, the blue digital clock on the microwave cast a pale, cold square of light across the white laminate counter.

I took my brass Portland house key off my key ring, leaving only the car key and the small mailbox tab.

I stood the brass key upright on the laminate counter, two inches to the left of the drip coffee maker, where my mother would see it first thing in the morning.

I left no note on the counter.

I wrote no explanations on paper.

I turned the deadbolt with my thumb, felt the quiet click as the steel bolt slid back into the frame, and stepped out onto the damp porch.