My Son Changed the Locks on My House (Continued)

The note said: ‘Mom — don’t panic, the new key is under the third flowerpot. I love you. Read the rest inside. — David.’

I found the key exactly where he said. When I opened the door, I understood in an instant why the locks had changed. The whole house had changed. While I was away, David had used his two weeks to do everything he’d been quietly saving for.

There were new locks because he’d installed a whole new security system, ones I could work with a single button, because he worried about me being alone. But that was the least of it. He’d had a walk-in shower put in downstairs, so I’d stop climbing the stairs to the tub he knew scared me.

He’d widened the back doorway for the day I might need a walker. He’d replaced the ancient furnace that had been rattling all last winter. There was a new recliner in the den, the exact one I’d admired in a catalog months ago and said was too expensive.

On the kitchen table was a second note. ‘I couldn’t be there to bury Aunt Ruth with you, and it ate at me the whole two weeks. So I did the only thing I could from here — I made your home safe, so I’ll never have to worry about you in it. The locks are new because everything is. Welcome home, Mom.’

I sat down at that table and cried for a good long while — not from grief this time, but from being loved so completely by the baby I once carried up these very steps. I’d thought my son had locked me out of my home. Instead he’d spent two weeks making sure I could stay in it for the rest of my life.