Three days before Danielle’s wedding, my sister-in-law appeared in my kitchen and announced that the restaurant had flooded. She needed my lake house immediately. That house had belonged to my grandmother, who had planted every flower bed, sewn the pillows herself, and made me pancakes in that kitchen throughout my childhood. I kept everything exactly as she left it. I said no, but my husband insisted Danielle was family. Eventually, I gave in.

I never even saw the ceremony. My aunt was hospitalized that morning, so I spent the day beside her instead. When I returned the next afternoon, my heart dropped. The flower beds had been destroyed to make room for an arch. Champagne bottles and trash covered the floors and yard, while tables had gouged the lawn. I called Danielle, expecting an apology. Instead, she laughed and said it was her wedding and I should have started cleaning already.