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….CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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