Chapter 5 - The Sunroom Latch Was My Work
The latch outside the sunroom door was mine.
I installed it eleven months before the fire.
The memory returned while Emma was still at the hospital.
Margaret had called me one Saturday.
“The sunroom door keeps blowing open.”
“What?”
“When the windows are cracked.”
“I’ll check it.”
I came over that evening.
The old door frame had shifted.
Its interior latch did not always catch.
Easy fix.
I suggested replacing:
the hardware.
Margaret said:
“Just put a slide bolt outside.”
I remember joking:
“You planning to lock somebody in?”
She smiled.
“Only troublesome grandchildren.”
I laughed.
Laughed.
Then installed:
the bolt.
Six screws.
Brass-colored metal.
Ten minutes.
I tested it.
Slide.
Open.
Slide.
Open.
Perfect.
My mother stood behind me.
Watching.
I had handed her:
the mechanism.
I did not know what she intended.
That distinction mattered.
But once the latch existed, she began using it.
And Emma began changing.
The two things happened at:
the same time.
May you like
I simply never connected them.
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