The moment I opened the door, I knew something was terribly wrong.
I’d promised my kids this trip for months. After a long, difficult year, we needed a break—a chance to breathe, to start fresh, to feel the salt air and sunshine wash some of the weight away. The little seaside cottage my grandmother left me wasn’t grand, but it was ours. Two bedrooms, a porch that creaked in the wind, and a kitchen so narrow you had to turn sideways to pass. For me, it was more than a house—it was memory, legacy, and promise all stitched together.
But instead of nostalgia, a wave of stench rushed out: stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something rancid that made my stomach twist.
Behind me, Daniel, nine, clutched his backpack. Rosie, six, clung to her stuffed bunny. On the drive, they had giggled about sandcastles and bunk beds. Now, they stared in stunned silence.
The living room was unrecognizable. Beer bottles littered the counters, the carpet squished underfoot, and greasy pizza boxes sagged open. The coffee table my grandmother once polished daily was snapped and shoved aside. Cigarette butts were pressed into the rug.
“Mommy… who did this?” Rosie whispered, her little hand tightening in mine.
I couldn’t answer. But I knew.
The proof was down the hall. Following the sound of heavy snoring, I pushed open the bedroom door. My heart dropped.
There, sprawled across my grandmother’s quilt with muddy boots still on, lay Susan—my mother-in-law. A half-empty wine bottle perched on the nightstand.
She blinked awake and smirked. “Oh. Surprise, Becky-Boo.”
Words stuck in my throat.
She sat up, stretching like she owned the place. “Don’t overreact. The students only left this morning. I was going to tidy up before you got here.”
“Students?” I choked out.
“Art kids. My friend’s niece. They wanted a summer hangout. Paid cash. You weren’t using it.”
My fists clenched. “It isn’t your house. It was my grandmother’s. Now it’s mine. And you trashed it.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s just a house.”
But it wasn’t. It was childhood breakfasts, rocking chair lullabies, and safety in stormy nights.
I walked outside and called Steven, my husband. He’d planned to arrive the next morning with pastries. When I told him what had happened, his voice was low, clipped. “I’m coming now.”
Twenty minutes later, his truck crunched over the gravel. He came armed with trash bags and cleaner, no smile, no small talk. He hugged me, kissed the kids, and got to work.
Together we scrubbed and bagged, Susan muttering curses under her breath as if she were the victim. “You’re exaggerating. Nothing’s stolen. You always blow things out of proportion.”
By sunset, we had beaten the worst of it back into order. Exhausted but firm, I faced her.
“You’re paying for this. The couch, the carpet, the chair—a thousand dollars to start.”
She barked a laugh. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Then you shouldn’t have rented out something that wasn’t yours,” I shot back.
Steven finally spoke, voice cold. “She’s right, Mom. You crossed a line. You’ve lost my trust.”
Susan sputtered, spat on the floor, and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the cracked window rattled.
That night, we ate fish and chips on the porch, cocoa for the kids, a lavender candle pushing back the sour air. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours again.
By morning, Steven was replacing the locks and patching the broken pane while I ran to buy fresh supplies. Just as I returned, my phone rang.
Susan.
Her voice trembled, but not with sincerity. “A pipe burst. My house is flooded. Everything’s ruined. Please, Becky—let me stay at the beach house.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Maybe you can use the money you made renting my property.”
Her sharp inhale was the last sound before I hung up.
That evening, the sea breeze swept clean through the open windows. On the sand, Steven and the kids carved moats and castles the tide would soon swallow. I sat on the porch, the sun warm on my shoulders, and felt something inside me unclench.
The cottage had been violated, but it wasn’t destroyed. Neither was I.
Home, I realized, isn’t just walls and furniture. It’s the people who fight for it, who sweep out the wreckage, light candles against the stench, and choose again and again to make it their own.
And sometimes, karma takes care of the rest.