My silence must have been taken for submission because Mom continued, her voice gaining confidence. “Sarah is struggling, Katie. Her apartment is too small for three kids. She needs the space. You have… well, you have your career. You have freedom.”
“Freedom?” I choked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “I have ‘freedom’ because my life imploded. I poured my savings into this house. I sanded these floors on my hands and knees. You told me if I fixed it up, it was mine. That was the deal.”
“We never wrote it down,” Mom said dismissively, waving a hand in the air. “Besides, family helps family. Sarah would do the same for you.”
That was a lie, and we both knew it. Sarah hadn’t lifted a finger to help me when my marriage fell apart. She hadn’t visited once during the six months I spent scraping mold and laying tile.
“So, when do I have to leave?” I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerously low calm.
“Ideally? By the weekend,” Mom said, looking relieved that I wasn’t screaming. “Sarah wants to get the kids settled before school starts.”
I looked around the kitchen. The custom cabinets I’d installed. The imported backsplash I’d saved for months to buy. The smart-home thermostat. The vintage light fixtures.
“Okay,” I said.
Mom smiled, stepping forward to hug me. “I knew you’d understand. You’re a good sister, Katie.”
I didn’t hug her back. “I’ll be out by Friday.”
For the next three days, I worked harder than I ever had during the renovation. But I wasn’t building anymore.
I started with the appliances. I had paid for the high-end stainless steel fridge, the dishwasher, and the range. I sold them on Marketplace for cheap to a guy who picked them up within the hour.
Then came the fixtures. The vintage brass lights? Gone. The smart thermostat? Replaced with the old, yellowed dial that didn’t work. The custom curtains? Packed.
But the real kicker was the flooring. I hadn’t glued down the expensive floating luxury vinyl planks yet; I had just finished cutting them to size. I pulled up every single plank, stacked them in my truck, and left the subfloor bare and dusty.
By Friday afternoon, the house wasn’t a home anymore. It was a shell. It was exactly what it had been when Mom handed me the keys six months ago: a rotting, empty box.
I was tightening the straps on my truck bed when Mom’s SUV pulled up, followed closely by Sarah’s minivan. They piled out, smiling, Sarah already pointing at the porch I’d rebuilt, telling her kids to go pick bedrooms.
Mom walked through the front door first. The scream she let out was satisfying in a way I couldn’t describe.
She ran back out, her face purple with rage. “What did you do?! Where is everything?”
“I took my things,” I said, leaning against my truck. “You said Sarah needed the lake house. This is the lake house. Everything inside it—the floors, the appliances, the lights—those were mine. I have the receipts for every single screw.”
“You ruined it!” Sarah shrieked, clutching her youngest child. “How could you be so selfish? How am I supposed to live there with no floors?”
“Family helps family, right?” I quoted my mother’s words back to her. “You guys have a great weekend. I’d suggest getting a hotel, though. The water heater was mine, too.”
I climbed into my truck and started the engine. My phone was already blowing up with texts from aunts and cousins calling me petty, but as I drove away from the lake, I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t have a husband, and I didn’t have a house anymore, but for the first time in a long time, I had my dignity. And honestly? That was worth more than the renovation.
