The bolt stuck only on damp days, which in Missouri meant often enough for Mara to put it on the list of things to fix before Lucy’s birthday.
She had made the list Thursday evening on the back of a health-insurance envelope, then copied it the next day into the family’s shared file with three columns: task, person responsible, deadline. Beneath “front door lock,” Jonah had added a comment—*I’ll survive this mission*—and a knight emoji. Mara had left it. She was not without humor. She simply preferred knowing who had done what when a problem returned.
That Saturday morning, she held the door open with her hip and turned the key with two fingers. The rain had stopped, but the porch still smelled of wet wood. Each time, the bolt scraped against the strike plate before sliding in.
“See?” she said.
Jonah, sitting on the bottom step to tie Lucy’s cleats, looked up.
“I see a door that closes.”
“It closes because I’m pushing it.”
“That’s a technique too.”
Lucy burst out laughing without quite knowing whose side to take. At eight, she already possessed the family talent for standing in the middle of a conflict until someone asked her to choose.
Mara went inside. In the hallway, the wedding photograph had slipped half a centimeter to the right. She straightened it with her fingertip. The dark walnut frame was too heavy for the small hook Jonah had chosen six years earlier when they moved in. In the photograph, they stood outside by the river, storm light behind them. Jonah was laughing openly. Mara was looking at the camera. Their difference had never worried anyone.
She took down the frame and held its face against her chest to reach the hook’s screw.
“What now?” Jonah called from the porch.
“It’s loose.”
“The lock or our marriage?”
“The photograph.”
“Oh. I had my money on the lock.”
End of excerpt. Discover the other stories in this universe.