The key rested at the bottom of Grant's father's bedside trinket box, unassuming, taking up little space as though forgotten. Grant ran his fingers along the jagged edge. A house key. Nothing to distinguish it from any other, at least not until it found its lock, its home, a home not at this address. It did not belong among the belongings of a steadfast father and loving husband. Plainness hid its insidious nature, but Grant identified in the wear and rounding the reason for father's long work weeks.

He wants it now, this moment, with all the certainty of limited experience. He reaches a chubby hand, wobbly but filled with conviction, but just as he is about to grab his goal, he is snatched up in a cooing maternal embrace.  He wails displeasure, squirming and kicking, red-faced with impotent rage, but his prize is gone.

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