When I was a boy my father would take me with him to the grocery store sometimes. Mostly I pushed the cart around for him and picked up everything we needed myself while he hung around the magazine section looking at merchandise you can only see online or in certain parts of Nevada for a small fee. He was a good man. You know, overall.
One time, after we had driven back home, my father handed me the keys to the house and told me to open the door for him. I of course was all too happy to help him, not really because I had some kind of wellspring of human compassion, but because he'd probably kick me if I said no. People can be real nice when they don't have any alternatives. I went to the door and inserted the key, turned it. Nothing, stuck. I tried again. Nothing. I could hear the footsteps on the concrete behind me getting closer, a wet scraping sound. But when my father stopped behind me I got a hand on the shoulder instead of a foot in the ass.
"Here son, hand me the keys."
My father took the tarnished silver key and casually put it in the lock. He then turned it the opposite way that it was supposed to turn first, and then the correct way. There was a faint click as the deadbolt slid out of place.
"Kid, you know sometimes you have to go the opposite of where you want to go, before you can go where you want to go."
He was right about a lot of things.