My own daughter left me a breezy little voicemail saying, “Mom, you don’t need to come this summer. Paul thinks it’s better if we keep the lake house for our family,” as if the cedar walls, the sage green door, the dock, the porch swing, and every nail in that place hadn’t been paid for with my money

There was a long pause. “Mom, I told you Paul’s parents are there through the month. It’s just easier if you wait. Maybe August?”

“August,” I repeated.

“Yeah. We’ll figure it out,” she said before hanging up.

She always hung up first by then. June 14th was the voicemail. June 16th, I listed the lake house for sale.

The agent I chose was named Sandra Vance. She was fifty five, local, and practical.

Sandra had a tan like old leather and a habit of tapping property descriptions with her pen. We met at the house.

I let her in with my own original key because I had hired a locksmith the week before to change the lock back myself. She walked through every room taking notes.

“It’ll move fast,” she said while looking at the water. “The market’s that hot.”

“What do I list it at?” I asked.

She named a number. I named a lower one.

Sandra frowned. “You can get more than that, Dorothy.”

“I know,” I said.

“You want a fast sale?” she asked.

“I want the right sale,” I replied.

We listed it at three hundred forty thousand dollars. Nine days later, I had three offers.

One was from an investor who wanted to “maximize potential,” which is a phrase I dislike. One was from a couple who wanted to turn it into a rental.