Melissa sat down.
For once, she didn’t interrupt.
“But I’m going home,” I said.
She nodded once.
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“I said I wanted a choice.”
I opened my hand.
The brass hinge lay beside my keys.
“And when I do, I want to know exactly what you’ve done to my kitchen.”
Melissa looked at the hinge.
Then at Larry.
“Mom…”
I waited.
“The pantry door is in your garage.”
“Good.”
“The pantry door is in your garage.”
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***
Four days later, I went home. The railing was repaired, the pantry door waited in the garage, and every moved item sat in a labeled box.
Larry ran straight to the door.
“Grandma, put it back.”
Melissa looked at me.
“Do you want it back?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you want it back?”
That afternoon, the door returned to its hinges.
Later, Melissa reached toward the spare-key hook, then stopped.
