I was the one who set the curfew. Every Saturday, eleven sharp, no exceptions.
He’d come in past midnight sometimes, all denim and excuses. I’d pretend not to hear the cellar door.
That hinge was loose. Had been for years. I never fixed it. Some things don't need fixing.
Last week my ex-wife called, first time in months. She said our son remembered that curfew. Fondly, she said.
She told me he used to slip in through the cellar window every time, just to make me feel like I was winning.
Hanging up after, I noticed the luggage tag from our last trip is still on my suitcase. The free trial for the streaming service we shared ended yesterday.
That hinge was never broken. It was a language only he and I spoke.
I think he knew I needed to feel like the sheriff, even when I wasn't.