My own daughter left me a breezy little voicemail saying, “Mom, you don’t need to come this summer. Paul thinks it’s better if we keep the lake house for our family,” as if the cedar walls, the sage green door, the dock, the porch swing, and every nail in that place hadn’t been paid for with my money

I remember writing that check at the office of my attorney, Sarah Jenkins. My hand shook, and she asked, “Dorothy, do you want a minute?”

I shook my head and replied, “No, Sarah. What I want is the deed.”

The lot was narrow at the road and opened wider toward the water with pines crowding the edges. The first time I stood there alone, the wind came off the lake smelling like warm water and damp wood.

I hired a contractor named Bill Miller, a local man who was sixty if he was a day. Bill had hands like baseball mitts and a voice like gravel dumped into a steel bucket.

“You sure you want a wrap around porch this big?” he asked me the day we walked the lot with the plans.

I looked him in the eye and said, “Yes, I am sure.”

He squinted at the paper. “And a screened section off the kitchen too?”

“Every inch of it,” I replied.

He nodded slowly. “You got grandchildren?”

“Five of them,” I said.

He grinned and spat on the ground. “Then make the porch bigger.”

That was how I knew we were going to get along. Bill built the frame, but I chose every single detail that went inside.