He used to say it was the only thing he ever bought that became worth more to him every year.
Dad died when I was nineteen.
A heart attack.
Right there on the dock while fishing.
Afterward, Mom almost sold the cabin.
She couldn’t bear being there.
For two summers, she stayed away completely.
Then one June morning, she called me.
“I think I’m going to open the lake house.”
And she did.
She has spent every summer there since.
It belongs to her now.
She pays the taxes.
Repairs the roof.
Maintains the dock.
Plants every flower around the property.
Two summers ago, she climbed a ladder and painted all the shutters blue by herself.
I yelled at her for a week for doing it without help.
“Your father always wanted blue,” she told me.
That was Mom.
Daniel and I got married that spring.
May.
Small church ceremony.
Barn reception.
String lights.
Taco truck.
Nothing fancy.
That summer was the first time our families really spent extended time together.
And the first time Daniel’s parents, Susan and Richard, visited the lake cabin, Mom was more nervous than I had ever seen her.
She called me every night for a week.
