When my mom died, she left me her lake house — her sanctuary, her pride. It was quiet, peaceful, full of memories. I was 17. Now I'm 21. I never rented it, never let anyone in. It was sacred. Untouched. A tribute to her. I just kept it clean, visited it a few times a year, and preserved it exactly as she left it, even down to the embroidered pillow she made that said, "Still waters, strong heart." My dad remarried fast. Carla. Plastic, fake, cruel. She used to laugh about my mom's style with her