My son brought his boyfriend home for Sunday dinner, and the second I saw that young man’s face I went cold with a serving spoon still in my hand. Twenty minutes later I had locked him in my own basement and was calling the police — and I was wrong to do it, and I would do it again, and both of those are true.

That is the part I hear at night. He did not bang on that door or swear at me. There was about four seconds of nothing and then a young man’s voice said, very quietly, “Is it about the car?”

I was already dialling.

Elliot came down the stairs behind me with three glasses on a tray and saw his mother standing with her back against the basement door and a phone at her ear.

He said, “Mom. What are you doing.”

And the dispatcher said, in my other ear, “Ma’am, is the person you’ve detained free to leave?”