I made the offer that week.
When the papers cleared and the keys were finally mine, I drove north with my life packed into boxes. My old pickup followed the rented cargo van on a trailer, and I remember thinking, somewhere past Barrie, that I had never moved toward anything so calmly before. I had spent most of my life moving because something needed doing. Work. Bills. A child. A repair. A crisis. This move was different. This was not running, not fixing, not answering. This was choosing.
I had owned the cottage for thirty-six hours when my daughter-in-law called and told me her parents were moving in.
Not asked.
Told.
“Your son and I have decided my parents are moving into your cottage for the summer,” Sienna said. “If that’s a problem for you, list it and move back to Toronto where you can actually be useful.”
