All I wanted was a peaceful place where my daughter and I could finally feel settled. Instead, shortly after we moved in, I found myself dealing with a neighbor determined to make us regret coming.
The moving truck disappeared down the road a little after two in the afternoon. I remained in the driveway with a cardboard box resting against my hip, looking up at the small house that now belonged to me.
Paint peeled from the siding in delicate curls. The left side of the porch dipped slightly, as though the house were leaning closer to hear a secret. It was modest and worn, but it was ours.
My eight-year-old daughter, Olivia, had already thrown off her sneakers and was racing barefoot through the tall grass behind the house. She stretched her arms toward the lake as though welcoming it personally.
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“Mom, there’s a frog,” she yelled. “A real one! I named him Kevin!”
“Kevin the frog stays outside,” I called back, laughing. “He’s a wild animal.”
I lowered the box onto the porch step and allowed myself to breathe.
My father had left me the lake house when he died six months earlier. For the first time in years as a single mother, I would no longer be sending rent money to someone else.
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