The January wind felt like a serrated knife that had been dipped in ice water, scraping again and again at my cheeks and my bare hands. I was standing outside the security door of the condo building, trying for the third time to slide my key into the lock. The cold brass of the key touched the equally cold metal of the lock with a faint click.
But no matter what, it wouldn’t make that familiar half turn. This wasn’t right. Usually, with just a gentle twist, the door would swing open, and the motion activated light in the lobby would flicker on, casting a dim but warm glow.
But today, this door, the one I had walked through for 10 years, was closed to me. The lock wouldn’t budge an inch, as if it were mocking my feudal efforts. I pulled back my numb, frozen hand and brought it to my mouth, blowing a puff of hot air into my cupped palms.
The white mist vanished instantly into the biting air. I looked up at the sky. It was a dreary gray.
It was only a little past 4 in the afternoon, but it already felt like twilight was settling in. A neighbor from downstairs came back from the grocery store, saw me, and paused for a second. He gave a polite nod and a small smile, then beeped the door open with his key fob and slipped inside.
The heavy door swung slowly shut in front of me, cutting off the faint warmth from inside and feeling like a gentle thud against my heart. Had they changed the locks? Did Michael, my son, or Jessica, my daughter-in-law, change them?
Why didn’t anyone tell me? I instinctively reached into my pocket for my old flip phone, thinking I should call my son, but my fingertips just traced the cold buttons, hesitating to press down. Michael had been so busy with work lately, often working late into the night.
At this time, he was probably in a meeting or rushing to finish a project. It didn’t seem right to bother him over something like this. Jessica, my daughter-in-law’s increasingly indifferent face appeared in my mind.
Forget it. Asking her probably wouldn’t get me anything but a sharp word. Maybe one of them had to change the lock in a hurry and just hadn’t had a chance to tell me where the new key was.
Maybe the new key was under the doormat or inside the utility box on the wall. Clinging to that sliver of hope, I bent my stiff back and struggled to lift the red doormat, the one with WELCOME printed on it. It was empty underneath, except for years of accumulated dust.
I stood on my tiptoes to reach for the utility box on the wall. The box was shut tight. I couldn’t reach it, and I couldn’t open it.
My hope died. A cold sweat started at the soles of my feet, seeping up through my thick winter pants and into my very bones. I had no choice but to retreat to a sheltered corner of the entryway, leaning against the ice-cold brick wall and trying to curl into a ball.
The window in the entryway didn’t close properly, and cold drafts whistled through the gap. I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, huddled in the old down coat I’d had for five or six years. My late husband Arthur had bought it for me, but its warmth had faded over time.
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