Because he knows I'm growing weary of the toddler joining me in on the toilet, smashing the door open against the wall with his chubby bare hand, fumbling for scraps of toilet paper.
"I hep oo." I help you.
The changing of locks and the switching of knobs, the hope of privacy is fresh. This apartment with the parking lot for a front garden isn't our home, but it is. Or, at least he's making it that way. With the locks. And the curtains. And the makeshift kitchen table made from old, cherished workbench.
It is not perfect. The door still bounces off the frame. Cold air leaks in cheap windows. The kitchen table is not beautiful. But it makes living here easier. And I am able to lock myself in the bathroom if I need to.
And occasionally, I need to.