When my stepmother decided to hold a party at my late mother’s beloved lake house—using keys she had secretly stolen—I thought I’d be the one to teach her a hard lesson. But as it turned out, karma had already prepared something far more satisfying than anything I could have come up with.
When my mother passed away, she left me one thing that meant more to her than anything else.
It was a serene, beautiful lake house she had purchased on her own, long before she met my father. That place had been her personal haven.
As a child, I vividly remembered the summer afternoons when she would pack a simple lunch and drive us an hour out to the lake.
She would set up her easel by the edge of the water, painting watercolor scenes while I busied myself building sandcastles or skipping stones across the glassy surface.
“Lana, sweetheart,” she would say, dipping her brush into swirls of blue and green, “this place holds all my best thoughts. One day, it will hold yours too.”
When it rained, we would curl up together in the wide window seat under soft blankets, sipping hot cocoa while the rain drummed on the roof. She would read me stories, her voice blending with the storm outside.
Sometimes, she let me dig through her art supplies, and I’d make clumsy finger paintings she treated as if they were masterpieces, proudly hanging them on the fridge.
My favorite memory of all was the summer I turned fifteen.
We stayed for an entire week. She taught me to make her famous blueberry pancakes on the old gas stove, and every morning we ate them out on the porch, watching the sunrise turn the lake into molten gold.
“This house saved me, you know,” she told me one night while we roasted marshmallows over the fire pit. “Whenever life got hard, I’d come here to remember who I really was.”
After she died when I was sixteen, the lake house became sacred to me.
I didn’t rent it out. I didn’t let anyone else stay there.
I kept it exactly as she had left it—down to the embroidered pillow she had made herself, stitched with the words: Still waters, strong heart.
After Mom’s death, I felt completely alone. I thought no one could ever fill the space she left. But my father clearly didn’t feel the same.
Within a year, he remarried—a woman named Carla.
Carla was artificial in every possible way—surgically, emotionally, and socially. Everything about her felt manufactured: the unnaturally white veneers, the overly sculpted figure, and that syrupy voice she used when delivering veiled insults, always prefaced by, “Oh, sweetie…”
What I despised most wasn’t just how quickly she took over our lives—it was the way she erased every trace of my mother.
From the moment she moved in, she began redecorating without hesitation. Out went my mom’s handmade quilts and her heartfelt paintings; in came cold, sterile furniture that fit Carla’s “modern” aesthetic.
And she didn’t stop there.
Carla had a subtle way of insulting my mom without saying it outright—making sarcastic little remarks that made my skin crawl.
“Oh, I could never pull off boho like she did,” she’d say with a saccharine smile. “Takes a special kind of confidence to wear patchwork skirts every day.”
Or: “She was so… whimsical. Almost like she lived in a dream instead of the real world.”
Her friends were no better.
During wine nights, they’d whisper-laugh about “hippie Earth-mom” and joke about her charging crystals under the moon.
I remember one night when I was seventeen, I came downstairs for water and overheard Carla in the kitchen, holding court.
“Well, she made great bread,” Carla was saying, swirling her wine glass. “Very domestic.”
Janet, one of her friends, giggled. “Did she really grow her own herbs?”
“Oh, yes,” Carla replied. “The backyard looked like some kind of botanical experiment. But then again, she always had her head in the clouds.”
I stood frozen in the hallway, heart pounding, listening to them reduce my mother to a joke.
I didn’t speak up. Back then, I was just a grieving teenager trying to survive.
When I turned twenty-one and officially inherited the lake house, I made it clear: it was off-limits.
“Dad, you need to understand,” I told him over dinner. “That place is sacred. No one else goes there. Ever.”
Dad nodded. “Of course, sweetheart.”
Carla smiled that plastic smile and patted my hand. “Of course, honey. Your mother’s little fairy cottage deserves to be preserved exactly as it was.”
Fairy cottage. Like it was a dollhouse, not a sanctuary.
Every year in June, on the anniversary of my mom’s passing, I take the day off work and go to the lake house alone.
I bring flowers, or sometimes just sit there and cry. It’s the one day I feel closest to her.
So imagine my shock when I arrived this year and found four unfamiliar cars in the driveway.
Loud music blared from inside. Laughter spilled out. And among the voices, I heard one I knew too well—Carla’s.
I gripped the steering wheel, running through explanations in my mind, but none made sense.
When I stepped onto the porch, I saw Carla through the window, pouring expensive drinks in the kitchen while her friends lounged on the deck in swimsuits.
And there, on the floor, someone had propped their feet on my mother’s embroidered pillow.
The one she made with her hands. The one that said Still waters, strong heart.
My chest ached.
Then I heard the voices.
“I bet she had dreamcatchers everywhere,” one woman said, laughing.
“Oh, definitely,” Carla replied, her voice dripping with mockery. “She burned incense all the time, like that could solve anything.”
Another voice chimed in, “Didn’t she paint weird abstract stuff?”
“Abstract is generous,” Carla scoffed. “More like finger painting for adults.”
I realized something—there was no sign of forced entry. Which meant they had a key.
Later, I discovered that while I was on a business trip three weeks earlier, Carla had gone to my apartment under the pretense of watering my plants, taken my spare key, and stolen the lake house key from my desk.
When I confronted her, she didn’t even pretend to deny it.
“Lana, you’re being dramatic,” she said, inspecting her nails. “It was just a small gathering. That place was sitting empty—it’s a shame to let it go unused.”
“You stole from me,” I said flatly.
“I borrowed it. There’s a difference. Besides, you weren’t even using it that weekend.”
“It was the anniversary of my mother’s death!” I snapped.
My stepmother took the keys to the lake house I inherited from my mom to throw a party — but karma got to her before I had the chance.
