My Stepmom Stole the Keys to the Lake House I Inherited from My Late Mother to Throw a Party – Karma Taught Her a Lesson Before I Could

I believed I would have to be the one to discipline my stepmother when she used stolen keys to host a party at my late mother’s revered lake estate. As it happened, karma had already prepared something far more fulfilling than I could have imagined.

My mother gave me one item that was really meaningful to her when she passed away.

Before she met my dad, she had purchased a serene, lovely lake cottage on her own. It served as her haven.

She used to make us a simple lunch and drive us to the lake on summer afternoons when I was growing up.

While I skipped stones or made sandcastles, she would set up her easel by the water’s edge and paint watercolor landscapes.

She would dip her brush in blues and greens and exclaim, “Lana, baby,” “all my best thoughts are here.” It will eventually hold yours as well.

We would huddle up with blankets and hot cocoa on the large window seat on rainy days. As the rain pattered on the roof, she would read me stories.

She would occasionally let me use her art supplies, and I would create awful finger paintings that she would display on the refrigerator as if they were works of art.

The summer I turned 15 is my favorite memory.

We spent an entire week there.

She showed me how to use the old gas stove to cook her renowned blueberry pancakes. Every morning, while the water was turning gold from the sunrise, we would eat them on the back porch.

She told me, “This house saved me, you know,” while we were roasting marshmallows over the fire pit one evening. “When life got hard, I’d come here and remember who I really was.”

It became sacred territory to me after she died when I was sixteen.

I didn’t allow anyone stay there or rent it out.

It was exactly how she left it, down to the embroidered pillow she made that read, “Still waters, strong heart.” I simply kept it clean, went there a few times a year, and conserved it.

I felt alone after Mom passed away and believed that no one could ever fully replace her in my life. Dad, however, felt otherwise.

Within a year after her passing, he wedded Carla.

Carla was malleable in many respects—socially, emotionally, and surgically. She screamed artificial in every way. The unattainable contours, the too-white veneers, and the way she would tilt her head and say “Oh, sweetie” in that sugary voice just before saying something unpleasant.

The speed with which she dominated our lives, however, was not what I detested most.

You see, she immediately began refurbishing our house as if we had paid her for that task. She threw away the canvases that Mom had painted with all her heart and the quilts that she had sewed herself without hesitation.

Carla disposed of everything that didn’t fit her “aesthetic,” replacing it with sleek, contemporary furnishings.

However, I was troubled by other things as well.

Carla never missed a chance to make fun of my mom. However, she refrained from doing so explicitly since it would have been clear that she didn’t like Mom.

Instead, she would make me shudder with these “sweet” little sarcastic jabs.

She would reply, “Oh, I could never pull off boho like she did,” while wearing that phony little smile. “Takes a special kind of confidence to wear patchwork skirts every day.”

Or, “She was incredibly… irrational.” It seemed as though she was living in a dream rather than the actual world.

What about her pals? They were worse.

When the moon was full, they would come over to our place for wine nights and whisper-laugh about how “hippie Earth-mom” most likely charged her crystals.

I recall a specific night when I was seventeen years old. I had heard Carla holding court in the kitchen when I came downstairs to get a glass of water.

Carla swirled her wine and said, “Well, she did make excellent bread,” “I suppose that’s something. Extremely… domestic.

Janet, her buddy, chuckled. Was it true that she grew her own herbs? For example, in the backyard.”

“Oh yes,” said Carla. “The entire yard resembled a botanical experiment of some sort. To be honest, I have no idea how she managed to keep track of everything. She always had her head in the clouds, though.

I stood in the hallway with my heart hammering against my chest.

These women were discussing my mother as if she were a humorous oddity. As if her modest way of life were something to be ridiculed.

I wish I had said anything, but I didn’t.

However, I was only a young child attempting to understand how to live without my mother.

I made sure everyone knew that the lake house was off-limits when I turned 21 and inherited it.

“Dad, I need you to understand,” I said this to him one evening at dinner. “I consider that location to be sacred. I go there to feel like I’m close to Mom. There are no other visitors. No one.

Dad gave a nod. “Obviously, my love. whatever you require.

Carla gave me her phony smile and patted my hand.

Her response was, “Of course, honey,” “Your mother’s little fairy cottage deserves to be preserved exactly as it was.”

The abode of fairies. As if it were a kid’s playhouse rather than the haven where my mother found tranquility.

We were approaching the fifth anniversary of my mother’s death this year as June drew near.

Every year, that date weighs heavily on me, so I take the day off work, spend it by myself at the lake house, and ponder.

I occasionally deliver flowers from her preferred garden center. I simply sit and cry sometimes.

For me, it’s the most intimate day of the year.

I will feel the closest to her memory on this one day.

You can only imagine how shocked I was to see four strangers already parked in the gravel driveway when I arrived in that Friday afternoon.

The house was filled with loud music. I could hear laughter, and I recognized one of the voices.

Carla’s voice was heard.

Why is she in this place? I pondered.

I gripped the steering wheel more firmly. Is this the incorrect day for me? Did someone else break in, or was this actually Carla? Did something go wrong with the rental properties?

I had explanations in my head, but I didn’t understand them.

I therefore made the decision to exit my vehicle and observe it for myself.

My eyes fell on the scene outside the window as soon as I stepped onto the porch.

In the kitchen, Carla stood pouring beverages from pricey bottles. Her buddies, meanwhile, were laughing and throwing their heads back while relaxing in their swimwear on the deck.

Additionally, my mom’s unique embroidered cushion was being used as a footrest by a stranger.

The pillow she had fashioned herself. The person who stated, “Still waters, strong heart.”

I felt like I had been hit in the chest when I saw that. I didn’t enjoy the situation.

Then, through the screen door, I could hear voices.

One woman was laughing and remarking, “I bet she had dream catchers hanging everywhere,”

Carla said, “Oh, probably,” and I could hear the sneer in her voice. “She talked about ‘cleaning the energy’ and was constantly burning incense. As if Sage could truly resolve actual issues.

“Didn’t she paint those weird abstract things?” There was another voice.

Carla said, “Abstract is generous,” and she chuckled. “It’s more like adult finger painting. It kept her occupied while the rest of us were out in the real world, though.

My mother’s favorite spot was now openly desecrating her memory by the same women who used to whisper disparaging remarks about her.

I wanted to yell at all of these women to leave my mother’s house, but then I had an epiphany.

Before anyone could see me, I retreated from the door and staggered shakily to my car.

As you can see, nothing was damaged or broken outside, and the door had not been pushed open.

They possessed a key, therefore.

Carla must have obtained the key from my apartment, I concluded. She must have taken the key after going through my belongings.

Later, text messages that would turn out to be important evidence would tell me the whole tale.

Three weeks prior, Carla had broken into my apartment when I was in Chicago on business. Claiming she wanted to “water my plants,” she had somehow stolen my spare key from Dad and proceeded straight to my desk drawer, where I kept the key to the lake house.

She didn’t even try to hide it when I questioned her two days later.

Saying, “Lana, sweetheart, you’re being dramatic,” she looked at her manicured nails as if we were talking about the weather. “It was only a little party. The location was deserted, and to be honest, it’s a waste to let such a lovely property to gather dust.

Saying, “You stole my key,” “You went through my personal belongings and stole from me.”

She dismissedively waved her hand. “I took it from someone. There is a distinction. You weren’t utilizing it that weekend, anyway.

“It was the anniversary of my mother’s death!”

“And, honey, it’s not good to dwell in sorrow. Your mother would not want you to spend all of your time thinking about the past.

I felt like screaming. I wanted her to realize that her actions were wrong.

But I took a more intelligent approach instead.

I expressed my understanding of her perspective to her.

I then gave my lawyer a call.

Carla was unaware that I had set up a complete security system at the lake house the year before, you see. I had cameras placed both inside and out, with cloud storage for all the data, following a small neighborhood break-in fear.

Jennifer, my attorney, was outstanding. She actually knew my mom from community painting lessons and was about her age.

Jennifer exclaimed, “Oh, honey,” as I played the video for her. “Your mom was a real gem. She got me through the most difficult period of my life. Let’s ensure that this is handled appropriately.

We recorded everything, including Carla using my stolen key to unlock the door and her pals laughing, drinking, and making fun of my mother’s possessions. A clear audio recording of their hurtful remarks regarding her art and way of life was also provided, as was video of her friend shattering a fragile piece of handcrafted stained glass that my mother had created.

But through legal discovery, we were able to obtain Carla’s text messages to her friends, which were the real deal.

“Bring the good wine, we’re partying at the hippie hut 😏”

“She’ll never know, she does her grief thing after the weekend LOL”

“Time to see how the other half lived… or should I say the other HALF-BAKED 😂”

Yes. In a courtroom, those messages didn’t seem so amusing.

The icing on the cake?

Carla hired a lawyer who was married to Susan, a woman my mother had assisted years before when she was suffering from severe postpartum depression. Susan told her husband all my mom had done for their family after learning who the case was about.

Three days later, he no longer had Carla as a customer.

“I can’t in good conscience represent someone who would desecrate the memory of a woman who saved my wife’s life,” he said to her.

In the end, Carla received a restraining order that prohibited her from approaching me or the lake house within 500 feet, a civil judgment for property damage, and criminal charges for trespassing and theft.

After that, I issued her a charge for the damaged stained-glass artwork, improved the security system, and changed all the locks. I added a letter that read, “Still waters, strong heart,” and a local artist valued it at $1,800. But fairness is demanded even by powerful hearts.

She never answered.

Carla left Dad’s house two months later.

It seems that something inside of him was shaken by those text messages and that video. I believe he eventually came to terms with the fact that he had married someone who had intentionally harmed his daughter on the most agonizing day of her year, in addition to making fun of the lady he had once professed to love.

I now take even more precautions to keep the lake cottage safe. However, it remains my haven.

It still reminds me of my devoted mother and is the spot that gives me the most comfort.

Mom, you are loved. And I’ll do everything in my power to protect your favorite spot.