The lake house was my mom’s pride and the only thing she left me when she died. I was 17 then, 21 when it became legally mine. I kept it untouched—a shrine to her memory.
My dad remarried quickly. His new wife, Carla, mocked my mom’s quilts and art, tossing them like trash. I warned her the lake house was off-limits. She smiled sweetly and said she understood.
On the fifth anniversary of Mom’s death, I drove up—and froze. Four cars in the driveway. Music thumping. Carla, wineglass in hand, hosting a poolside party. Her friends laughed in swimsuits while one used Mom’s hand-embroidered pillow as a footrest.
When I confronted her, Carla smirked. “Don’t be so dramatic. Your mom wouldn’t want you stuck in grief.”
I didn’t argue. I just smiled back—because I had a plan.
She didn’t know I’d installed security cameras. Footage showed her unlocking the door with stolen keys, mocking my mom’s art, and inviting her friends to “party at the hippie hut.” My lawyer pounced. Trespassing. Theft. Civil damages. Even her own attorney quit—because my mom had once helped his wife.
The judge sided with me, slapped her with a restraining order, and billed her $1,800 for my mom’s broken stained glass. Two months later, Carla was gone. My dad finally saw her cruelty.
Now, the lake house is mine again. Untouched. Sacred.
And Carla? She learned the hard way: sometimes, you don’t need revenge.
Karma does the work for you.
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