She thought she’d found the “perfect” lake house in Asheville—six bedrooms, a private dock, hot tub—all for \$500 per person. She planned everything and didn’t pay her share, but my mom, Meryl, was so excited she didn’t mind.
“She deserves this,” I thought—especially after working three jobs since Dad passed away.
Two days before the trip, my son Tommy got sick. I called to cancel.
Her reaction? Cold. “We’ll make do without you.” No concern for my son—just frustration.
My mom volunteered to stay, but I insisted she go. She left excited, asking me to give Tommy a kiss from Grandma.
The next morning’s FaceTime showed her huddled by a broom closet on a thin mat. She’d been relegated to sleeping in a hallway. Outraged, I grabbed a sitter for Tommy and drove over with an air mattress.
At the lake house, I found her exhausted. I confronted Jessica in the master suite and reassigned her to the hallway. My mom reclaimed the room and finally slept well.
Next day, refreshed, she made breakfast—her old self again. Jessica’s relatives awkwardly packed and one said, “She had that coming.”
Jessica shot me a glare, “You embarrassed me.” I replied, “Good—now you know how she felt.”
Mom and I finished the trip—she swam, lounged, and finally felt prioritized. Before we left, she hugged me, whispering thanks. I said, “You’ve done it for us. Now it’s your turn.”
Family isn’t blood—it’s who stands up for you when you’re too tired to fight. My mom deserved that.