I always thought the lake house was our dream—mine and Travis’s. We bought it three years ago with money I’d inherited from my grandmother, and I threw myself into fixing it up like it was our firstborn. It wasn’t anything fancy—a squat two-bedroom cottage with cedar siding and a wraparound deck that creaked when you walked on it barefoot—but it was ours. No one around for miles, just pines, water, and the kind of silence you can only hear when you’re truly alone.
We called it “maintenance weekend,” a little tradition we’d built before spring kicked off and the mosquitoes came to reclaim the woods. We’d go out for three or four days in March to clear branches, clean gutters, check for damage, and flush the pipes. The house wasn’t winterized, so it needed a bit of love each year. It wasn’t glamorous, but it always felt good to do it together. Just the two of us, like it used to be.
Only this time, it wasn’t just us.
I found out about his family joining two days before we left.
“Babe, Mom and Dad want to come up and help this weekend,” Travis said casually while buttering toast, as if they were popping by for coffee and not a weekend of labor.
“They want to help with flushing pipes and pressure washing the siding?” I asked, already suspicious.
“And his brother and his wife too,” he added without looking up.
So now it was six people at a two-bedroom lake house with no running water, no working toilet, and no heat—just propane, a septic tank, and an outhouse I’d practically built myself from YouTube tutorials and sweat. I should’ve said no right then. But I didn’t. Because that’s what I do. I go along. I try to be accommodating.
We arrived Friday morning. Snow still clung to the shaded parts of the gravel driveway. The pines were bare, and the lake was just starting to thaw. Travis immediately started unloading supplies from the truck while I hauled bags of biosafe soap and vinegar cleaner inside. His parents rolled up an hour later in their RV. I’d warned them there was no indoor plumbing yet. They acted surprised anyway.
“Oh… we thought you had indoor showers,” his mom said, nose wrinkling like I’d baited them here under false pretenses.
“We do. Just not in March,” I replied, trying to smile.
His brother Nate and his wife Tasha showed up around lunchtime. Nate parked his truck on the edge of the clearing, promptly crushing the early shoots of my wildflower garden. Tasha opened the passenger door, took one look at the composting outhouse, and muttered, “Absolutely not.”
The weekend blurred into a series of passive-aggressive comments, cold meals, and dirt under my fingernails. I kept busy—hosing out the gutters, scrubbing the deck, checking the propane hookup. Every time I turned around, someone was asking me where to find a towel, how the grey water tank worked, or why the solar panels weren’t generating enough juice for six phones and an iPad.
Travis, meanwhile, had turned into a camp counselor. He laughed with his brother, grilled sausages in the snow, and acted like this was some sort of rustic family retreat.
“I thought we were here to get work done,” I muttered as he handed his dad a beer.
“We are. We’re just making it fun,” he said, tone light, like I was the only one taking this seriously.
By Saturday evening, I was done. I’d cleared the yard of fallen limbs, re-caulked the kitchen sink, and run vinegar through all the taps. Travis hadn’t so much as cleaned a window. His mom had commandeered the indoor bathroom for “emergencies only” even though the septic wasn’t fully operational yet. Nate let their dog run through the house with muddy paws, and Tasha kept suggesting we “just get a rental next year.”
That night, we all sat around the fire pit outside. The air was sharp, and the stars were painfully clear. I tried to relax. I poured myself a cup of red wine from a canteen and stared into the flames. Then Travis said it.
“You know, I think we should just make this an annual family thing. Like, everyone comes out for maintenance weekend. It’s a great bonding opportunity.”
I stared at him. Surely, he was joking.
But no one laughed. His dad raised his beer in a silent cheer. His mom nodded enthusiastically. Even Tasha smiled like this was the best idea she’d ever heard.
I stood up without a word and walked inside. I packed my duffel bag in the dark, grabbed my keys, and left. Just like that. I didn’t slam the door or scream. I just left.
It was a three-hour drive back to our house in Concord. I didn’t turn on the radio. I didn’t cry. I didn’t think. I just drove.
I stayed at home the rest of the weekend. Travis didn’t text. He didn’t call. Monday morning, he walked in like nothing had happened.
“You left,” he said. Not angry. Just stunned.
“I did.”
“I thought you were just cooling off.”
I looked at him, and something shifted in my chest. Not hate, not love. Something quieter. Something colder.
“I’ve been cooling off for two years, Travis. This place was supposed to be ours. But every time I try to make it feel like home, you invite people in like it’s your parents’ timeshare. I’m not a guest here.”
He tried to explain, of course. He said I overreacted. That it was just one weekend. That his mom meant well and Nate didn’t realize about the flowers. That family was messy and I needed to be more flexible.
But I wasn’t interested in being flexible anymore. I was interested in being respected.
That week, I called my lawyer. The lake house was in both our names, but I’d paid the down payment. I asked her what my options were. A month later, I bought him out. He moved his stuff out over the course of three awkward afternoons. He cried when he packed the grill. I didn’t.
Now, it’s mine.
I go up there alone most weekends, or sometimes with a close friend or my sister. I plant new wildflowers every spring. I built a better outhouse. I installed a hot water line to the outdoor shower. It still smells like cedar and lake water and old pine needles.
The last time I saw Travis, he looked like a man who’d lost a vacation. I looked like a woman who’d gained her sanctuary.
Some people say I gave up too easily. That marriage is compromise. That family comes with baggage. But I didn’t leave my husband over an outhouse or a long weekend gone wrong. I left because I realized I’d rather spend my time with people who see me, not just what I can provide.
Would you have stayed another night?
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