My mother, Karen, straightened from where she’d been rearranging my brand-new sofa and armchair into a configuration I hated. “We thought you’d be at work until five.”

That didn’t answer my question. I stepped over the growing puddle of sauce, my shoes sticking slightly. “How did you get in here?”

Mom waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting away an inconvenient fly. “Oh, I had a key made yesterday when I stopped by to congratulate you.”

The memory surfaced instantly: Mom asking to use the bathroom during her brief, stilted visit, her purse unexpectedly left behind on the counter. At the time, I’d thought nothing of it. Now, the casual violation of it stole my breath.

“You took my keys and copied them? Without asking?” The tremor in my voice was humiliating.

“Don’t be so dramatic, honey,” Mom said, busying herself by fluffing a throw pillow I’d just bought. “We’re just seeing how to make this work for everyone.”