Chapter 2 - THE ESCALATION OF ENTITLEMENT
Within four minutes, my phone began to vibrate violently against the granite countertop.
It wasn't a text. It was a phone call.
Caller ID: Ethan.
I let it ring out. The rhythmic buzzing felt like a pulse, steady and demanding. When it stopped, I waited thirty seconds before it started again. I let it go to voicemail.
Ten minutes later, a text message arrived from Ethan.
Ethan: Mom, what is going on? Vanessa said you texted the group chat saying we can't use the beach house. Is everything okay? Are you feeling sick?
Notice how he didn't ask if I wanted them there. He assumed my refusal must be due to a medical emergency or senility, because the idea that I might simply choose not to hand over my keys was completely outside his comprehension.
Before I could type a reply, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was a direct message from Vanessa.
Vanessa: Clara, are you playing games? We’ve already told the kids they’re going to the beach. My mom canceled her bridge club. Flights are non-refundable—well, driving, but we’ve planned our whole week around this. Stop being difficult. Send us the lockbox code.
The arrogance took my breath away. "Send us the lockbox code." Like I was checking her into a Holiday Inn Express.
I typed my response slowly, making sure every syllable landed where it needed to.
Clara: There are no games, Vanessa. You did not ask if you could use the house. You informed me. And the answer is no. The house is closed for maintenance.
Her reply was instantaneous.
Vanessa: Maintenance? In April? Don't lie to me. Ethan says you haven't done maintenance down there in years. We’re coming down on Saturday. Fix the fridge by Thursday like I asked.
I stared at the screen, my thumb tracing the cracked glass protector. Ethan says you haven't done maintenance down there in years.
So my son had been talking behind my back, reducing the labor of love David and I had poured into that cottage into a punchline for his wife's dinner parties. He had let her believe that the blue-gray cottage was an abandoned shack just waiting for her superior management skills to rescue it.
I didn't reply to Vanessa. I blocked her number.
Not permanently—just long enough to buy myself forty-eight hours of absolute silence.
May you like
Then I walked into my garage, flicked on the fluorescent light overhead, and looked at the shelf where David’s old toolbox sat beside a gallon can of marine-grade porch paint.
If Vanessa wanted maintenance, I was going to give her maintenance she would never forget.
