My mother dragged her suitcase up the walk and tried the key.
It did not work.
She tried again.
Then again.
Then she pounded on the door.
“Arden! Open This Door! Arden, I Know You Are In There!”
Her voice came through the door and the camera speaker at the same time, creating a strange
echo. The woman who raised me, multiplied by technology.
My father reached the porch next. He had been arguing with the men in the SUV and looked like he had lost.
He slammed his fist against the door.
“Arden, What Did You Do To The House?”
That was the sentence.
The one I had been waiting for.
Not “What did we do?”
Not “Can we talk?”
“What did you do to the house?”
As if locking my own door was vandalism.
As if protecting what I owned was an attack.
I opened the app and pressed the intercom button.
