For now, it was enough to step over the threshold with the knowledge that this place—this house, this porch, this impossible view of ocean and sky—was finally, unequivocally, mine.
Or rather, ours.
Mom’s and mine.
The fog lifted slowly over the next few days, both outside and inside my chest.
The beach house, under Victoria’s rule, had felt like a stage set. Behind the façade of tasteful decor, everything had been arranged for appearances: driftwood art that somehow looked too polished, matching pillows that had never seen sand, a vase of artificial shells carefully glued in place on the coffee table.
I spent the first morning walking through each room, taking inventory of what had changed and what had survived her touch.
The living room, once filled with mismatched furniture my grandparents had scavenged from yard sales and refinished, now sported sleek leather couches and minimalist side tables. I could almost hear Mom’s dry commentary: “Looks like a hotel lobby, doesn’t it, Alex?”