at my son.
For years, I had believed love meant keeping the door open no matter what someone did after entering.
I understood differently now.
Love could knock.
Love could wait.
Love could respect a locked door.
After Aaron left, I walked through my quiet house turning off the lights one by one.
At the front door, I checked the deadbolt out of habit.
It clicked firmly beneath my hand.
The sound no longer reminded me of the day Brianna screamed outside or the moment Aaron arrived holding a crowbar.
It reminded me of something much simpler.
The house was mine.
The choices were mine.
And after years of disappearing inside my own life, I had finally come home.
