PART 1

I agreed to let my sister-in-law use the lake house my late grandmother had left to me after her original wedding venue flooded only two days before the ceremony. I asked her for just three things: leave Grandma’s garden untouched, make sure nothing in the house was damaged, and take every piece of trash with her once the celebration ended.

Kelsey promised she would.

To me, those rules were never about being controlling or territorial. That house was the last place where I could still feel close to my grandmother, and her garden meant more to me than anything else on the property.

The next morning, I discovered that she had ignored every single rule.

My grandmother Penny had always treated her garden like a living scrapbook of our family. The peonies represented the year I was born. She planted the lavender along the walkway after recovering from surgery. The roses beside the porch marked her anniversary, while the white daisies appeared after my first school recital.

When Grandma died, she left the lake house to me along with a note that read, “Keep it lived in.”

I repaired whatever needed fixing while taking great care to preserve the garden. My husband Zac knew exactly how much it mattered to me. His sister Kelsey never understood.

Two days before the wedding, Kelsey arrived in a panic. A burst pipe had destroyed the restaurant where her reception was supposed to be held, and every other nearby venue was already booked.

Then she pulled out her wedding binder and showed us a photograph of my lake house.

“We’ll have it there.”

My first response was no, but she begged, explaining that the guests were already traveling. Eventually, I gave in.

But I made the rules completely clear.

“No picking flowers. Don’t place heavy furniture on the soft grass. Nothing inside the house gets damaged or moved around. And every piece of trash has to leave with you.”

“Absolutely,” she said.

On the morning of the wedding, my aunt suddenly collapsed. Zac and I rushed her to the hospital, so we missed the ceremony. Before we went inside, I called Kelsey.

“The rules still apply.”

“Yes, Nadia. I remember the sacred flowers.”

My aunt finally stabilized late that night. We returned to the lake house the following morning.

A handmade cushion was soaked and lying beside the driveway. Plastic cups littered the lawn, bottles had been abandoned near the dock, and deep tire tracks had torn through the grass.

Then I saw the wedding arch.

It had been decorated with Grandma’s flowers.

The roses she had planted for her anniversary had been cut. The lavender had been ripped from the ground. The daisies had been gathered together with ribbon. The peonies had been completely pulled up.

Inside the house, wine had soaked into the cushions, and her rocking chair had been damaged.

I called Kelsey.

When I demanded to know why she had destroyed the garden, she said, “We needed fresh flowers. It was my wedding.”

I reminded her that she had specifically promised not to touch them.

She laughed.

“They’re just flowers, Nadia. They’ll grow back. You own the place, so clean it up yourself.”

Then she hung up.