What’s a latch key kid?
My perception of that phrase is somewhat negative and embodies the idea of a neglected kid with a parent or parents more concerned with their own satisfaction than their child’s rearing. As the Gershwin song goes ‘“It ain’t necessarily so”.

My mom was a widow, left with two boys, 4 and 10 years old. I am the 4-year-old. My brother was 10, but let’s say he didn’t exist, cause I’m the author of this story, and I wish it that way. That’s the wonderful thing about story telling.

I was by no means neglected. My mom gave up much of her own life to provide for me. She was an attractive widow who had several suitors. One, in particular, wanted her, but wanted to put me in military school away from him. She gave him his walking papers. Thanks, mom.

Mom stayed home with me, and we lived on my dad’s insurance until I was 10. At that time we were outta money so she had to go to work. Hence, “latch key kid.”
I always wished I could earn some money to help with living expenses, but I had to wait until I was 15 before I could earn anything. And that was 65 cents an hour delivering prescriptions and stocking shelves at a local pharmacy. Not a helluva lotta help.

In the meantime, I had specific chores as assigned by my mom. I was to peel the potatoes for mashed potatoes that we had most every night for supper (unlike my wife, Marjorie, who had rice with almost every meal–South Carolina vs NYC). That was my almost daily chore upon arriving home from school via latch key.
I then was to meet her at the Long Island Railroad station about 6 blocks from our apartment, when she came from her job in Great Neck Long Island every work day.
She would be on the train that left Great Neck at 5:28 pm and arrived at our station at 5:38pm, yep, a whopping ten minutes, every weekday evening. I would accompany her on the walk home.
I also had other household chores to do, but for the most part, I was on my own from school end until meeting her at 5:38. That’s a pot-load of time for a 10-15 year old to get in trouble if he had a mind to. My conscience, respect for my mom, and yes, fear of getting caught, kept me pretty much on track through those years of adolescence and financial struggle.
My cooking chores expanded quickly to learning to prepare whole meals, however basic. I became an expert at opening cans and preparing frozen foods by following instructions on the package. My mom also taught me some basics like cooking a roast, making gravy and preparing hamburgers or hot dogs.
Essentially, I was forced by our situation, to learn to cook, and I kinda enjoyed it.
I even had fleeting thoughts about becoming a chef, but our lean financial situation quelled that dream quickly.
That learning experience helped immensely with my early days as an Air Force officer about 7 years later.

At Charleston AFB I joined 3 other junior officers in renting a 4 bedroom home near the base. I was the only one of the four of us who could cook. Thus I became the household chef. The big perk there was I got to eat what I liked, and my roomies enjoyed it (or not). And they did the dishes.
One favorite meal was a rare to medium rare steak, mashed potatoes (remember them) and either creamed corn or peas. Life was good. Diet not quite healthy.

Advance the clock about 30 years, I resumed duties as chief cook for my wife and me after retiring from the Air Force. I’m still fulfilling that role after 60 years of marriage. Life goes on. Enuf.