The Locked Door
It started with small things.
Emma stopped telling me about her day. I’d ask, “How was school?” while stirring soup or folding laundry, and she’d just shrug.
“Fine.”
Then she’d disappear upstairs.
Click. The sound of her bedroom door closing.
I missed the old Emma—the girl who used to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs, chattering nonstop about her friends, her teachers, the drama at lunch. She’d laugh so hard milk almost came out of her nose.
Now? Silence.
And a locked door.
At first, I told myself it was just a phase. Teenagers pull away. They need space. But then, one night, I brought her warm milk—something I used to do when she had nightmares.
I knocked.
No answer.
I turned the knob.
Locked.
My heart twisted. Emma had never locked her door before.
The next night, same thing. And the night after that. Every locked door felt like another brick in a wall between us.
So I made a plan.
While she brushed her teeth, I slipped a folded tissue into the latch hole. My hands shook. This is wrong, I thought. But I had to know.
Later, when the house was quiet, I crept down the hall. The floor creaked under my feet like a warning. I held my breath, turned the knob—
And froze.
There was a boy in her room.
He sat on the edge of her bed, legs awkwardly folded. Emma was on the floor, grinning, tossing popcorn into her mouth. A candle flickered on her desk, filling the room with the scent of cinnamon.
“Emma.” My voice was ice.
The boy flinched. Emma’s smile vanished.
“Mama—”
“Out. Now.”
He didn’t argue. Just bolted for the window and vanished into the night.
Emma jumped up, arms crossed. “It’s just Caleb! He lives two blocks away! We were just talking!”
“You won’t see him again,” I snapped.
“WHY?” Her voice cracked. “We didn’t even DO anything!”
I couldn’t answer.
Because it wasn’t just any boy.
It was his son.
The next morning, guilt sat like a rock in my stomach. I made Emma’s favorite breakfast—cheesy eggs, toast with strawberry jam, hot cocoa in her chipped pink mug.
An apology without words.
I knocked on her door.
No answer.
I turned the knob.
Her room was empty.
The bed was perfectly made. Her phone sat on the nightstand.
She never leaves without her phone.
Panic clawed at my throat. I called her friends. No one had seen her. Then—the phone rang.
“Sadie’s mom?” A woman’s voice. “This is Judy. Caleb’s mom. Emma’s here.”
Relief flooded me. “I’ll come get her.”
Their house was small, paint peeling. Judy opened the door before I even knocked.
“She’s upstairs,” she said softly.
I started up the steps—then froze.
A door creaked open.
And he stepped into the hallway.
Wade.
Older now, with streaks of gray in his hair. But those sharp blue eyes—the same ones that had once looked at me with promises—were exactly how I remembered.
His face paled. “I didn’t know she was yours.”
My hands clenched. “She doesn’t know anything. And she never will.”
In the car, Emma sat curled up, arms wrapped around herself. Silent.
Then—
“Why do you hate Caleb’s dad?”
The question hit like a punch. I pulled over, gripping the wheel.
“I loved him,” I whispered. “A long time ago. He promised me everything. Then one day… he was just gone.”
Emma’s breath caught. “So… Caleb’s not my—”
“No,” I said quickly. “You’re not related. But seeing him… it brought everything back.”
She wiped her eyes. *“I like him, Mom. He *gets* me.”*
My chest ached.
“You always did like the kind ones,” I said softly.
That night, I knocked on her door.
“Yeah?”
I stepped inside. She was sketching, pencil in hand.
“You can see him,” I said. “Caleb. If you want to.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
I swallowed hard. “I just… I want to be part of your life again. Not someone you shut out.”
She launched herself at me, hugging me tight. *“I never wanted to shut you out. I just wanted you to *see* me.”*
“I see you,” I whispered.
And for the first time in months, we left the door open.
