The morning Daniel changed the locks, my parents had gone to the little market in Pacific Grove for bread, fruit, and my mother’s favorite lemon yogurt. Claire and Daniel arrived while they were out. Daniel brought a locksmith and said there had been a “security concern.” By the time my parents got back, the front door code no longer worked, the brass deadbolt had been replaced, and Daniel was inside moving their things out of the front closet “to prepare the house.”
Prepare it for what? My father asked that question, later, with the stunned voice of a man who still couldn’t comprehend how he had ended up begging entry to his own gift.
Prepare it for renters, Daniel said.
As if renters were already inevitable. As if he had crossed from discussing possibilities into operational reality without anybody else’s consent.
They argued on the porch. My father demanded the new key. Daniel said not until “the occupancy issue” was resolved. My mother cried. Daniel told her not to be dramatic. Claire tried to soothe everybody in exactly the wrong direction by saying it was “just temporary” and “actually for the best.”