Son Number Two went out last night to a campfire with friends and was pretty late getting back. I totally clued out that he had gone out---the memory ain't what it used to be---and I locked the front door, not just the knob but the big bolt. And I went to bed. Son Number Two came home in the middle of the night and he didn't have a key to the bolt.
He could have banged on the door, or shouted up to our window, or knocked on his brother's window, or even phoned us to come down and let him in. But he didn't, because he didn't want to wake us or disturb the baby or cause the dogs to bark and wake the household. So sweet Son Number Two spent the night sleeping on the cement bench in the front garden instead. I didn't know a thing about it until I unlocked the door at 4:30 this morning.
I feel horrible for locking the door. And I'm touched that he would be that thoughtful and sweet. From now on I do a head count before locking up!
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