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

I chose wide plank pine floors with enough knotting to look like a real house and not a brochure. I chose the stone for the fireplace after driving to three separate yards and tapping each sample with my fingernail.

Arthur used to do that and say stone ought to sound honest. I chose brushed brass fixtures for the kitchen and a deep forest green for the front door because Arthur always said green was the color of home.

I chose a farmhouse sink with an apron front and enough room to wash a bushel of peaches in. I chose the porch swing myself and made Bill move it three inches farther toward the west side.

“I want whoever sits there to see the exact line where the sky goes copper before dark,” I explained to him.

It took eleven months of sawdust and sweat. Every other weekend, I drove up from Birmingham to check on the progress.

I brought Bill black coffee and sandwiches. I swept the floors before the railings were even finished.

When the kitchen cabinets went in, I stood in the center of the room after everyone left and cried. The sound bounced off the unfinished walls and came back to me like another woman sobbing in a life where Arthur was still alive.