My mom passed away when I was just seventeen, leaving me something incredibly special: her lake house. It wasn’t just a house; it was her sanctuary, a place filled with peace and memories. For her, it was where she went to escape, to recharge, to just *be*. After she passed, I couldn’t bring myself to rent it out or even let anyone in. It felt too sacred, like disturbing a memory. Now, I’m twenty-one, and the lake house has remained untouched all these years, a monument to her spirit. My dad, however, moved on much faster. He remarried a woman named Carla, and let’s just say she’s… not my favorite person. Carla is the epitome of plastic – fake, cruel, and utterly insensitive. She constantly mocked my mom’s style in front of her wine-club friends, sneering, “Oh, it was so whimsical… like a thrift-store fairy threw up in there.” I always held my tongue, not wanting to cause a scene, but her words stung like a swarm of bees.
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When I inherited the lake house, I made it crystal clear: it was off-limits. Carla, with that saccharine smile she reserves for when she’s being particularly condescending, said, “Of course, sweetheart. Your mom’s *ugly hut* deserves to be preserved, exactly as she left it.” I knew she was being sarcastic, but I let it slide. After all, I had the house, and she didn’t.
This past June marked the five-year anniversary of my mom’s death. I decided to drive up to the lake house, needing to reconnect with her memory and find some solace. As I rounded the corner, I froze. There were four cars parked haphazardly in the driveway. Loud, obnoxious music blasted from the open windows. And then I saw her: Carla, standing on the deck, pouring drinks and laughing with her gaggle of friends, all of them dressed in swimsuits.
My blood ran cold. I could see them clearly from the road. They were all over the deck, lounging on the furniture, and then I noticed it: [“MY MOM’S FAVORITE THROW PILLOW, THE ONE SHE ALWAYS USED, WAS UNDER SOMEONE’S FEET, BEING USED AS A FOOTREST”]. The sheer disrespect of it all sent a jolt of rage through me. I wanted to scream, to charge in there and throw them all out, but I was paralyzed by shock and disbelief.
I heard Carla’s voice, amplified by the open windows, “No taste, that woman, but at least she bought a property with a view!” I backed out of the driveway before anyone could see me, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I sat in my car, furious and humiliated. Carla thought she could get away with desecrating my mom’s memory and treating her sacred space like some cheap motel. But she forgot one small detail.
She forgot that the lake house was MINE. And I was about to make her regret ever stepping foot on that property. Oh, this was far from over. It was time for a little payback, lake-house style.
