Samuel blocked the doorway. “Mom.
Where did you get the key?”
She blinked innocently. “Oh, that? I just made a copy!
For emergencies, you know.”
“Emergencies,” I repeated flatly. “Like emergency wine drinking? Emergency dress-up sessions with my clothes?”
Pamela looked sadly at Samuel.
“Well, maybe if you spoiled your Mommy with more delicious food and bought me the beautiful clothes you buy for your wife, I wouldn’t have been so curious.”
I’d had enough. It was time to end this.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to give us back every copy of that key you made.”
She scoffed.
“And what if I don’t?”
Samuel dropped a brand-new lock set on the table. “Then you’ll be wasting your time trying to break into a house you can’t get into anymore.”
Pamela stood there, her face twisting with barely contained rage. Then she yanked a key from her purse and slammed it onto the counter.
“Fine! But don’t expect me to help you when you need me!”
I couldn’t help but smirk. “Oh, we never did.”
She stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
She spent the next few weeks sulking, refusing to apologize or even acknowledge what she’d done wrong.
Samuel got the brunt of it as she bombarded him with texts and calls about how unreasonable I was being, and how he’d regret this if we had an emergency.
But he didn’t let her manipulate her way back into our lives.
I changed the locks that same day. Now, every time I open my fully stocked fridge or slip into an unworn dress, I smile, knowing my home is finally, truly mine again.
And if Pamela wants to know what I’m wearing or eating these days? Well, she’ll just have to use her imagination.
Source: amomama
