The new brass key was in my coat pocket.

I took it out and laid it in my palm.

The old silver key had belonged to a house where other people decided when I should be quiet, which door I should use, and how my fear should be described.

I had returned it.

I did not need it to keep a place in that family.

This key was simpler.

It opened the home I rented.

It belonged with the lease I had read and the door I had chosen.

I looked toward the bedroom, where my daughter was sleeping, then at the lock across the room.

This was our door now.

The small brass key rested in my open hand.