By the time I turned into the narrow gravel lane that led to the lake house, my shoulders felt like concrete.

June had barely started, but the hospital already felt like it had swallowed half my life.

Three months of double shifts, nonstop alarms, aching feet, skipped lunches, and that familiar sour smell of antiseptic clinging to my scrubs even after laundry.

I had been counting down to this weekend like it was rescue.

The lake house had always been that for me.

Not because it was grand.

It wasn’t.

It was an old cedar place with a deep porch, a crooked stone path, and windows that rattled when the wind came hard off the water.

But it sat in a cove where the mornings came in silver and quiet.

My grandmother used to say the lake gave honest people their thoughts back.

I needed my thoughts back.

So when I saw the extra cars in the driveway, the relief I had been carrying all week vanished so fast it made my chest hurt.

Marcus’s silver SUV was parked close to the porch.

Beside it were a maroon minivan and a black sedan I didn’t recognize.

I sat there for a moment with the engine running, staring at them, trying to make sense of it.

Marcus never used the lake house unless I invited him.

He had his own life in Boston, and he had inherited the city property from our grandmother when she died.

A huge brownstone that was worth easily three times what this place was.

He had told everyone he was happy with the arrangement.

Said the lake house was more mine than his anyway.

That was before Vanessa.

I shut off the engine and stepped out.

Gravel shifted under my shoes.

The air smelled like hot pine, lake water, and sunscreen.

Something was wrong before I even reached the front door.

I could hear children yelling inside.

Not laughing.

Not playing softly.

Full-volume chaos.

I unlocked the door with my key and pushed it open.

The first thing I saw was a pair of wet flip-flops thrown in the hallway.

Then a beach towel balled up on the floor.

Then two little boys racing across the living room while a woman I had never met shouted at them with the kind of lazy voice that made it clear she was not going to stand up and actually stop them.

My grandmother’s antique sofa sat against the far wall, and one of Vanessa’s relatives was sprawled across it with muddy shoes up on the cushions.

There were open chip bags on the coffee table, a sticky ring from a drink on the wood, and somebody had shoved the hand-stitched quilt my grandmother made into a corner like it was an old rag.

The smell hit me next.

Burned popcorn.

Sweet wine.

Lake algae from wet towels.

And underneath it all, that warm old-house scent that had once felt comforting and now felt contaminated.

I took two steps forward, still too stunned to speak.

Then Vanessa appeared in the kitchen doorway with a wineglass in her hand.

She wore a fitted white sundress and a look on her face like I was some inconvenience who had shown up uninvited to her private event.

Her makeup was still perfect.