Frank by Rose Hunter

One morning I emerged from the bedroom, bleary-eyed, to find my mother, ripping up the tiles in my kitchen. In the main room was a stack of new tiles. I screamed at her to get out, and then to tell me, also, how she had gotten in, but when I was halfway through one of those sentences I saw the broken lock and the security chain hanging in two pieces. What she had done, she disclosed, was drag the building super up here with a bolt cutter.