By the time I reached the house, the sun had set and the rain had turned the driveway into a slick sheet of gray. My 11-year-old, Hannah, sat curled up under the porch light, soaked to the bone.
She looked up when I pulled in. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, as if she were the one who’d done something wrong.
The door opened. My mother stood there with a glass of wine in hand, her expression unreadable.
“Elena,” she said lightly. “What are you doing here?”
I stared at her. “You changed the locks.”
Her response was calm, rehearsed. “We needed privacy.”
“You locked my daughter out in the rain,” I said, barely recognizing my own voice…….
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