It was three in the afternoon when I stood on my front porch holding my two-day-old daughter, staring at the door like it might explain itself.
The key wouldn’t turn.
I tried again, thinking maybe exhaustion was making me clumsy.
My husband’s car was in the driveway. The lights inside were off.
Everything looked normal except for the fact that I couldn’t get into my own house.
I knocked gently at first, then harder.
Then, I heard footsteps.
“Raymond?” I called, shifting the baby in my arms. “Ray, the key isn’t working. Can you open the door?”
Silence.
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