“Because your father and I enjoyed feeling like you still needed us to manage your life.” I said nothing, letting it hang.

“We felt that if you needed our help to survive your grief, then we didn’t have to face how much we were taking from you.” It was a terrible thing to hear said aloud, and it was also the first time in my adult life that my mother had been completely honest with me.

She stepped forward and set the brass key on the table beside me.

“I’m not expecting you to forgive me today.” “That’s good,” I said honestly, “because I’m not ready to.” She gave a small, solemn nod.