The lake house wasn’t just a building—it was my mother’s soul in timber and glass. Long before my father came into her life, she bought that secluded sanctuary as a statement of independence. To her, it was a refuge; to me, it was a cathedral of memory. I still remember the smell of linseed oil and lake mist as she painted at the water’s edge, the golden hour catching every stroke. “Lana, baby,” she’d say, “this place holds all my best thoughts. Someday, it will hold yours too.”
When she passed during my sixteenth year, the house became sacred. I never rented it, never invited anyone inside. I preserved it exactly as she had left it—hand-painted canvases drying in the loft, the embroidered pillow on the window seat reading, Still waters, strong heart.
My father, however, moved on fast. Within a year, he married Carla—a woman plastic in every sense: too-white veneers, a syrupy voice, and an appetite for cruelty masked in charm. Carla didn’t just decorate the house; she tried to erase my mother entirely. Handmade quilts replaced with cold minimalism. Subtle digs at Mom’s “boho” style. Her presence reduced to a quaint curiosity.
When I officially inherited the lake house at 21, I set boundaries. The house was mine, off-limits to everyone. Carla sneered, calling it my mother’s “little fairy cottage,” a phrase that felt like a slap.
The Invasion
Five years later, on the anniversary of my mother’s death, I returned for a weekend of reflection—and found chaos. Four luxury cars on the lawn, bass shaking the windows, the smell of perfume and grilled food. Through the screen door, I saw Carla holding court in my mother’s kitchen, her friends sprawled over the furniture, one of them using Mom’s Still waters, strong heart pillow as a footrest.
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