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My mother, Karen, straightened from where she\u2019d been rearranging my brand-new sofa and armchair into a configuration I hated. \u201cWe thought you\u2019d be at work until five.\u201d<\/p>\n
That didn\u2019t answer my question. I stepped over the growing puddle of sauce, my shoes sticking slightly. \u201cHow did you get in here?\u201d<\/p>\n
Mom waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting away an inconvenient fly. \u201cOh, I had a key made yesterday when I stopped by to congratulate you.\u201d<\/p>\n
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\u2019d thought nothing of it. Now, the casual violation of it stole my breath.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou took my keys and copied them? Without asking?\u201d The tremor in my voice was humiliating.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t be so dramatic, honey,\u201d Mom said, busying herself by fluffing a throw pillow I\u2019d just bought. \u201cWe\u2019re just seeing how to make this work for everyone.\u201d<\/p>\n