Not obligation.
Not routine.
I reached slowly for the doorknob.
Unlocked.
For one dangerous second, humiliation nearly overpowered restraint. I imagined screaming loudly enough for neighbors to hear, smashing groceries against the walls, becoming exactly the kind of shattered suburban wife people discuss quietly over wine afterward.
Then my eyes landed on the old brass childproof latch mounted outside the frame.
We installed it nine years earlier after Ethan repeatedly flooded the downstairs bathroom pretending pirate ships lived inside the bathtub.
I stared at it silently.
Then I slid the latch firmly into place.
Click.
The shower stopped instantly.
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