We had talked about it for years. Not in a grand, unrealistic way, but in the quiet practical language of people who love a dream long enough to make room for it in ordinary conversation. Every time we drove through the Lake Oconee area, Samuel would slow the truck just enough to look at the water through the pines and say, “One day, Dot. Just something simple. Big porch. Good chairs. A dock for the grandkids.”
He used to sketch it on napkins in restaurants.
A porch swing facing west so you could watch the sun drop without having to turn your neck. 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 and fish hooks and sunscreen and coffee. A place where family would come and stay and remember what mattered.
After he died, the house stopped being a someday and became a promise.
I used the life insurance and part of my retirement savings and bought 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 was one of those rare attorneys who speak to you like a human being instead of a file. My hand shook, and she asked if I wanted a minute. I said no. What I wanted was the deed.
