“I’ll Venmo you like, 50 bucks for it. Chill.”
That’s what my sister said, staring at the shattered pieces of our father’s rocking chair. The one he spent a whole winter carving by hand for our mom.
A chair her friend broke at a party she threw at our family cabin.
For twenty years, I was the one who fixed the roof and stained the deck. My weekends were spent with a toolbox, not a mimosa.
She called my sacrifice a “hobby.” She believed her fifty-percent ownership meant she had zero percent of the responsibility.
She thought our father’s legacy could be measured in square footage and social media likes, but she was about to learn that my receipts came with twenty years of interest.
The Weight of Memory: What the Lake Remembers
The splinter worked its way into my thumb, a sharp, unwelcome punctuation to the Saturday morning. I pulled it out with my teeth, the taste of pine and varnish bitter on my tongue. The porch deck needed this coat of sealant every two years, a ritual my father had taught me. “You let the wood dry out, Evie,” he’d said, his voice a low rumble, “and you lose the whole house.”
For twenty years, I’d kept the wood from drying out. I’d patched the roof, cleaned the gutters, and waged a quiet, seasonal war against the carpenter ants. My husband, Mark, called it my second full-time job. Our son, Leo, just thought it was the old house where the cell service died. To me, it was the last place on earth that still felt like my parents. The air smelled of them.
My phone buzzed against the warped wood of the porch railing. It was Mark. “Everything okay up there?”
“Just me and the orbital sander. The usual romantic getaway.”
He chuckled. “Don’t let the quiet fool you. I saw Chloe’s latest post. Looks like she’s ‘manifesting a weekend vibe.’ You know what that means.”
I sighed, looking out at the calm, grey water of the lake. “I know exactly what it means.” A crumpled letter in my pocket from the Lakeside Homeowners’ Association felt heavier. It was the third noise complaint this summer. It spoke of “unauthorized guests” and “excessive late-night disturbances,” all polite code for my sister’s impromptu festivals.
“Just… try not to let her get to you this time, Ev. You have as much right to be there as she does. More, if you ask me.”
“Try telling her that,” I murmured, watching a lone loon dive beneath the surface. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I went back to work, the rhythmic drone of the sander a poor substitute for the silence. I was trying to race the clock, to soak up enough peace to last me through the coming storm. But the storm, I knew, was already on its way.
The Hashtag Arrives
A white BMW convertible, obnoxious as a dental drill, screamed up the gravel drive an hour later. It wasn’t just a car; it was a declaration. The driver’s side door opened, and my sister, Chloe, emerged. She was twenty-eight, dressed in a neon pink athletic set that probably cost more than the new water heater I’d installed last month.
She didn’t say hello. Instead, she held her phone up, pirouetting slowly. “Hey, my loves! We made it! The #CabinVibes are officially immaculate!”
Three of her friends, all looking like clones in different-colored yoga pants, tumbled out of the car. They moved like a school of fish, chattering and oblivious, their rolling suitcases rattling over the stones. None of them so much as glanced at me, the middle-aged woman in paint-splattered jeans kneeling on the porch. I was just part of the scenery. Part of the “rustic aesthetic.”
Chloe finally lowered her phone. “Ev, hey. The Wi-Fi is acting tragic again. Can you call the company or, like, reset the thingy? Madi needs to upload a reel for her brand sponsor.”
“Hello to you, too, Chloe.” My voice was flat.
She didn’t catch the tone. She was already inside, her voice echoing through the small cabin. “Oh my God, this place is so dark. We need to get some ring lights in here. And this TV is, like, from a museum.”
I stood up, my knees cracking a protest. I followed her in, the smell of their perfume already clashing with the familiar scent of cedar and old books. Madi was already trying to plug six different devices into a single, weary power strip. I was no longer the co-owner of my parents’ legacy. I was the unpaid property manager.
About the Author
