Chapter 9 - Roots and Reconstruction
The following spring, the Oregon woods came alive with a riot of green and gold that felt entirely different from the summers of the past.
The lake house no longer felt like a seasonal stage where I played the part of an invisible servant. It felt like home—deeply rooted, fiercely protected, and completely my own.
I spent May rebuilding the dock from the pilings up, driving every galvanized bolt in with a heavy mallet while the smell of fresh cedar filled the warm air. There was no one yelling from the porch about the aesthetic of the bushes, no one leaving empty beer cans in the planters, and no one demanding that I cater to their every whim.
My freelance business had expanded, allowing me to hire two junior developers to handle the routine cybersecurity audits, which freed up my afternoons to focus on woodworking and photography.
My mother visited twice over the spring—short, quiet weekend trips where we sat on the porch drinking coffee in the mornings and walked down to the water without the heavy, suffocating theater of family politics hanging over our heads. We never talked about the lawsuit, and we never talked about Melinda. Some bridges didn't need to be rebuilt; they needed to stay burned so new paths could grow around them.
One afternoon in late June, as I was finishing up repairs on the front porch railing, a beat-up silver sedan pulled slowly down the gravel driveway.
I paused, hammer in hand, watching the car come to a stop near the mailboxes.
The door opened, and a young woman stepped out—Chloe, my seventeen-year-old second cousin, the one who used to sleep on the couch during those chaotic reunions while the adults argued over dinner. She looked nervous, clutching the strap of a canvas backpack like a shield.
She walked hesitantly up the front steps, stopping a few feet away from where I stood.
"Hey, Kayn," she said quietly, looking down at her sneakers.
"Hey, Chloe," I said, setting the hammer down on the wood. "What brings you out this way? You take a wrong turn on the way to the coast?"
She offered a small, self-conscious smile. "Actually... I drove up from Salem. I'm working a summer job at the marina down the road, and my apartment lease didn't start until July. My mom said... well, my mom said I shouldn't come here, that you hated all of us."
I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the same quiet, awkward expression I used to wear at her age, standing on the outside of a family that was too loud and too selfish to notice anyone who didn't demand a spotlight.
"Your mom isn't entirely wrong about the second part," I said with a faint smile. "I don't have much patience for the rest of them."
Chloe’s shoulders slumped slightly.
"However," I added, picking up my car keys from the porch table, "the guest cottage out back has a working kitchenette, a private entrance, and a fast Wi-Fi connection. And unlike your aunt Melinda, you actually know how to pick up after yourself."
Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise and cautious relief.
"You mean... I can stay there?"
May you like
"For twenty bucks a week and help with the garden on weekends," I said. "Deal?"
A real, bright smile broke across her face. "Deal."
