The sound of tires grinding over frozen gravel shattered the quiet like a warning bell.
I was in the kitchen of my Montana cabin, hands dusted with flour, bread rising by the window. Snow drifted lazily outside. Pine trees stood tall and silent. The air smelled of wood smoke and coffee. It was calm. It was earned. It was mine.
Then I saw the SUV.
My son Michael climbed out first, tense and impatient, scanning the cabin the way someone sizes up property—not a home. A second car followed. A man stepped out holding a metal toolbox.
A locksmith.
Before I could react, a third vehicle arrived. My daughter Laura’s. Polished. Controlled. Predictable.
Two of my children.
One locksmith.
Zero permission.
I stepped outside into the cold.
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