It was just a normal day at work. Busy, chaotic. I was running on three hours of sleep and one energy drink.
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Then my phone buzzed.
Six missed calls from Hannah. My 11-year-old daughter, my quiet kid, the one who apologizes to furniture if she bumps into it.
She never calls six times unless it’s important. I stepped into the supply room and called.
She answered immediately.“Mom,” her voice was small and tight, trying not to cry. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“My key doesn’t work. It won’t go in.
I think they changed the lock.”
“They?”
“Grandma, maybe Aunt Brittany.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“They wouldn’t change the lock without telling me.” A sniffle. “Can you come home?”
I glanced at the clock.
