Then I cooked, not because I cared what Megan thought of my cooking, but because Dad would have wanted his table full, not empty. A pot roast, potatoes, bread from the bakery in town. By 6:30, the cabin smelled like a real home.
At exactly 7, headlights cut across the trees. Megan’s white Lexus crunched up the drive, Mom in the passenger seat.
I watched from the porch as Megan strutted toward the door, heels clicking on gravel, cream-colored dress like she was attending a business closing. Mom followed, looking tired but polished, her pearls as rigid as ever.
“Nice little place,” Megan said as she stepped inside, eyes scanning every corner like a buyer on a house tour. “Still drafty.”
I ignored the jab.
“Sit down. Dinner’s ready.”
Then we ate in tense silence at first. Mom tried small talk about the weather, about Albany traffic, but it fell flat. Megan was too busy looking around, cataloging furniture, staring at the old photo of Dad and Grandma Rose on the mantle.
Finally, she leaned back in her chair, smirking.
“So, what’s the big plan, Hannah? Going to tell us you painted the porch and now you’re queen of the Adirondacks?”
I set my fork down calmly.