My own daughter told me, “Mom, don’t come to the l…

A kitchen big enough for holiday breakfasts. A screen door that slapped shut behind children running in wet from the dock. A fire pit.

Pine floors. A place that smelled like cedar, fish hooks, sunscreen, and coffee. A place where family would come and stay and remember what mattered.

After he was gone, the house stopped being a someday and became a promise. I used the life insurance and part of my retirement savings to buy a lot on the east side of Lake Oconee. Eighty-seven thousand dollars for the land.

I remember writing that check at Grace Okafor’s office. Grace had handled Samuel’s estate, and she was one of those rare attorneys who spoke to you like a human being instead of a file. My hand shook when I signed.

She asked if I wanted a minute. I said no. What I wanted was the deed.

The lot was narrow at the road and opened wider toward the water. Pines crowded the edges, and the slope was just enough to make a porch view possible. The first time I stood there alone after closing, the wind came off the lake smelling like warm water, damp wood, and possibility.