“We had the dock repainted. Hope you don’t mind.”
I minded.
Very much.
But I said little because by then I had entered the quiet state women of my generation know well. The place where you stop arguing not because you agree, but because you are gathering evidence.
Watching.
Measuring.
Learning the shape of someone else’s entitlement before deciding what to do with it.
They changed the lock in April.
Mark said the old one was rusted.
He handed me a new key at Sunday lunch like he was doing me a favor.
In May, I drove up to the lake house on a bright Thursday afternoon, planning to stay two nights. I wanted to air out the rooms, plant something by the steps, maybe sit on the porch and feel close to Henry.
I climbed the porch, put the key in the new deadbolt, and nothing happened.
It did not fit.
I tried again.
Then again, slower.
Through the window, I could see the living room I had designed. The fireplace. The rug. My lamp. Henry’s photograph on the mantel, small from outside but still visible.
And there I stood, holding a key that opened nothing.
I called Natalie.
“Oh,” she said after letting it ring too long. “Mark must have gotten a different lock. I’ll send you a copy.”
She never did.