She wonders why the front door is unlocked. It’s never been that way. It’s always locked even when someone’s home because Mom gets anxious about what could happen. Mom’s ideation of such thing comes from the movies where people either get robbed, murdered or both. It’s always the typical bad things, but Mom never realized what other things could happen.
“Mom, I’m home,” she puts her backpack on the empty couch as if it were some fragile, fine china. The TV is left on; a CapriSun is on the floor, a cookie half-eaten on the table. Cartoon Network is on –– her little brother’s favorite channel. “I got a perfect score on our spelling quiz in English earlier,” she says proudly, heading to the kitchen. “I’m going to make PB and J; does anyone want one? Mom? Richy?”