I bought my parents a $650,000 cottage by the ocean for their fortieth anniversary because I wanted them to finally know what peace felt like.

My mother’s framed photo of her and my father on their wedding day had been removed from the mantel and leaned face-down against the wall. The afghan she kept over the reading chair was folded into a storage bin. Their toiletries were boxed in the guest room closet. The bowl of polished sea glass my mother had collected over six months of morning walks was gone from the coffee table. The pantry shelves had been partially emptied and neatly labeled with sticky notes: OWNER SUPPLIES / GUEST SUPPLIES. On the kitchen island sat a binder titled HOUSE MANUAL with tabs for Wi-Fi, check-out procedures, waste disposal, and emergency contacts.

My mother saw the binder and sank onto a dining chair like somebody had hit the backs of her knees.

Daniel had reduced her life to hospitality logistics in under three hours.

I picked up the binder and flipped through it. There it all was. Proposed check-in time. Pet policy. Minimum stay. Cleaning fee. Recommendations for whale-watching tours and upscale restaurants. Under “property overview,” Daniel had written: Elegant coastal retreat ideal for couples seeking privacy, premium views, and exclusive access to Cypress Point.