Inside the box was the spare key Marguerite had carried to our home for years. Beneath it was a card Declan had written weeks earlier: “If Wren is treated as less than family one more time, this key is returned and all unsupervised access ends.” Marguerite’s scream was not because the key itself was valuable. It was because she understood exactly what it meant. She had used that key whenever she pleased, sometimes arriving without warning and insisting that “grandmothers don’t need invitations.”
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