She was carrying two large, heavy bags from the Chinese restaurant: dinner for Bryce and the kids, and her mother. It was several moments before she heard activity on the other side of the door, the sound of the lock being thrown, but the door didn’t open and Marva could detect her mother’s muttering. Exasperated, she put the bags down on the stoop and got her own key out of her purse, and let herself in. Her mother looked up, frustration evident in her expression. Marva was startled to see that the lines in her mother’s face seemed to have deepened just in the short time since she had arrived. “That ridiculous lock they have,” her mother said, by way of greeting. “There’s something wrong with it.” “No, it’s just—” Marva stopped herself. Just the dead bolt and the second lock, she was going to say; the same key worked for both of them. But her mother’s drawn face stopped her.
