She had no answer.
I climbed down from the truck and took out my phone.
Tommy stood immediately.
“Mom.”
“I’m calling the police.”
Sandra stepped forward.
“Seriously? Over furniture?”
“No. Over entering my home without permission, removing my property, and trying to force open my door.”
Tommy’s voice cracked.
“Please don’t.”
My heart broke hearing him.
But I dialed anyway.
Not because I hated my son.
Because if I treated this like another private family mistake, I would be teaching all of us the same lesson I had taught for years.
Mom will absorb it.
Mom will fix it.
Mom will forgive it before anyone changes.
Not this time.
The officers who arrived separated us and took statements.
They asked whether Tommy had permission to enter the house.
“No.”
Had he ever had a key?
Yes.
After James died, I had given him an emergency key.
But six months earlier, I replaced the front lock because the old deadbolt had started sticking. Tommy never received the new key.
