The house felt enormous when they were gone. Not instantly peaceful — just achingly empty. The sheer volume of their anger and entitlement had occupied physical space in the walls, the floorboards, the very air.

That evening I took Grace to the hardware store. We didn’t talk about the morning. We bought a heavy-duty brass lock for her bedroom door.

When we got home, Eric fetched his drill and installed it himself while Grace sat on her bed, watching in silence. When he finished, he swept up the wood shavings, wiped the brass clean, and held the new, shiny key out to her.

“I should have protected you that night,” he said, his voice raw. “I should have been the one standing on the porch.”

Grace took the key, feeling its weight in her palm. “Yeah. You should have.”

“I’m so sorry, Grace.”