The Last Summer at the Lake

Title: The Last Summer at the Lake

Subtitle: Some Promises Are Never Meant to Be Broken

I sighed and pulled my hat brim down to shield my face from the blazing summer sun. Just a few more chapters, I told myself, flipping open my book again, though I’d read the same paragraph four times already. My eyes drifted off the page, pulled by the lake's gentle shimmer, and the book quietly fell into my lap.

A loon cried from across the water. A young couple paddled slowly in a red canoe, gliding toward the wooden dock. The breeze rustled the pines and birches that framed the shore like sentinels of memory. I smiled faintly when I saw a small fish leap into the air before splashing back into the lake, as if it too was playing in the past.

I sighed again, this time heavier.

Convincing Todd not to sell our Minnesota cabin when we moved to Texas had been a small victory in a series of quiet defeats. This cabin wasn’t just wood and nails—it was history. It was the scent of fresh pine on a July morning, the sound of children laughing during cannonball jumps, the lazy afternoons searching for wild raspberries, and the quiet evenings with Todd beside me on the porch, watching fireflies blink across the dark.

He didn’t understand. Or maybe he did—and just didn’t care the same way I did.

Todd had ties in Texas now—his brother, his cousin, his new job. He liked the dry air, the flat land, the absence of winter. To him, this cabin was sentimental clutter, a place we outgrew.

But to me, it was home.

I shifted in my chair, stretching my legs. The idea of lunch floated in my mind—maybe a fresh salad and some grilled burgers. Todd always liked to man the grill, even if he ended up burning half the patties. I smiled at the memory of him sheepishly flipping charred meat, claiming it had “extra flavor.”

I stood, brushing off my shorts, and began walking up the stone steps to the cabin. Something tugged at the back of my mind—an itch I couldn’t scratch. A detail out of place. A memory trying to rise.

As I reached the porch, I noticed the back door was open, creaking gently in the wind.

“Todd!” I called out, my voice laced with irritation. “You left the door open again. Mosquitoes are going to have a feast—and what if something gets in? A raccoon? Or worse, a skunk?”

There was no reply.

I stepped inside, my feet automatically finding their place on the old wood floor. A slight chill ran through me, though the air was warm. Something felt… off. I turned toward the fireplace, where our family photos usually sat on the mantle.

They were gone.

My stomach dropped. Not just one or two—the whole collection was missing. Pictures of our wedding day, our daughter’s first summer at the lake, the camping trip when the tent collapsed in the rain—vanished. The cabin was intact, but the soul of it felt disturbed.

Before I could process it, I heard the familiar rumble of Todd’s Volvo pulling into the gravel drive. I peeked through the window. He stepped out, calm and methodical, opened the trunk, and pulled out a white sign and a hammer. From my view inside, I could read it clearly:

FURNISHED CABIN FOR SALE

My heart dropped to my stomach.

“Todd!” I shouted through the window, my voice raw and rising. “You promised me. We talked about this!”

He didn't even glance at the window. Just calmly walked to the edge of the driveway, near the treeline, and began hammering the sign into the dirt like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I stormed through the door, rage blooming in my chest like wildfire. “Todd, we discussed this a hundred times. You agreed. We’re not selling this place!”

For the first time, he spoke. But he didn’t look at me.

“Cheryl,” he said, with a coolness that stung, “you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

He raised the hammer one last time and drove it into the ground.

“No!” I cried. I ran toward him, my hand outstretched, desperate to stop him, to pull him back into our shared world.

But my hand passed right through his arm.

Just… through him.

A cold silence fell around me. The wind paused. The birds stopped their song.

Suddenly, it all came back.

The last argument. The final, brutal exchange of words. The push.

The sharp edge of the stone steps.

The searing pain in the back of my skull.

The silence afterward.

He hadn’t helped me. He’d walked away.

I’d died there. Alone.

And now he was selling the cabin—the last place I’d called home—like it meant nothing.

Tears welled up in my eyes, not just for my death, but for the betrayal that followed. For the broken promise. For the memories discarded like old furniture.

Without saying another word, I drifted back through the cabin, past the empty mantle, down the stone steps, and returned to my beach chair.

The lake welcomed me, shimmering peacefully as if it remembered who I was.

A loon cried again.

A fish jumped.

The breeze returned, brushing my cheek like a whisper from an old friend.

And I sat, watching the waves, feeling something close to peace.

I belonged to this place now—not to Todd, not to the past or the pain, but to the lake, the trees, the sky. This cabin, this shore, this silence—it was mine forever.

Let him sell the walls.

The soul would stay with me.