Dad hung the key on a small brass hook inside.
Then he closed the panel.
“Done?” I asked.
He considered the question.
“No.”
“What’s left?”
“Living.”
I smiled.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
We went inside.
The kitchen table had been extended with both leaves.
Mom sat at one end.
Luis at the other.
Derek and Veronica were setting out plates.
Inez had somehow been convinced to stay for dinner.
For years, I had believed my parents’ house represented security because they owned it.
Then Derek believed controlling it would solve his insecurity.
Dad believed protecting its documents would protect the family.
We were all wrong in slightly different ways.
The house mattered.
Of course it mattered.
Thirty-eight years of work lived in those walls.
But the most valuable thing my parents owned was not the deed.
It was the ability to open the door and decide what kind of family entered.
