I went to my son’s apartment with a duplicate key, convinced I was going to catch my daughter-in-law with another man. “Today this lie ends,” I thought before opening the bedroom door. But the woman inside wasn’t her: beside a bottle of champagne, I found my own husband after 32 years of marriage… and what I heard next was even worse.

As though I was some stranger inspecting their home.

I was his mother.

I had spent thirty years making sure Samuel had everything he needed.

I did not simply stop being his mother because he had gotten married.

That was why I had made the duplicate key.

Samuel had given me one for emergencies during their honeymoon.

Chloe later asked for it back.

I returned the original.

Then made a copy first.

I told myself it was harmless.

Practical.

A mother taking precautions.

I had used it more than once.

I checked the refrigerator.

The laundry.

The bathroom.

Sometimes I opened drawers.

I told myself I was looking for evidence that Samuel was being neglected.

In truth, I simply wanted to know how they lived when I was not there.

I wanted to know whether Chloe spent too much.

Whether she kept the house well.