My daughter was locked out in the rain for six hours — then my mother told her we no longer lived there. three days later, a letter brought her to her knees.

My daughter, Lila, came home in the pouring rain, shivering from the November cold, only to discover that her key no longer fit the front door. She tried once. Then twice. Then again, twisting her wrist harder each time until the metal dug so deeply into her palm it left an angry red indentation. The little brass key worn smooth over the years was the same one I’d given her at fourteen, tied to a strip of embroidered leather she’d chosen at a craft fair. It had always worked. It should have worked that night.

But it didn’t.

Rainwater ran down her sleeves. Her backpack sagged heavily with soaked textbooks. Even the bright teal jacket she loved so much was darkened completely, plastered to her arms.

She rang the doorbell.

Knocked.

Called out, “Grandma? Grandpa? It’s me!”

Then she sank onto the front step, pulled her knees to her chest, and waited.

She waited for six full hours.

Thunder rolled across the sky. Streetlights flickered on one by one. Her phone battery died sometime around the second hour. Neighbors’ cars drove past, splashing water from the curb, but she didn’t move.

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