Chapter 2 - The Housewarming That Never Ended
The pattern began during my housewarming celebration five years ago.
I had invited my parents and Bethany for a small, peaceful gathering. I wanted to share my joy with the people who were supposed to love me most. I had prepared a modest dinner, bought a good bottle of wine, and waited for them to arrive.
Instead, Mom and Dad appeared with twelve extended family members. Aunts, uncles, and cousins poured out of their vehicles, carrying nothing but expectations. They immediately started behaving like the owners.
My father escorted the guests around the property. I watched from the kitchen as he proudly pointed out the stone fireplace, the specially built deck, and the unobstructed view across the lake.
“Look at the craftsmanship here,” he had said, clapping an uncle on the back.
He accepted every compliment with the satisfied expression of a man presenting his newest, most lucrative investment.
My mother stood inside my kitchen, sipping my expensive wine, and thanked people when they praised the imported marble counters.
“We just knew this was the perfect spot,” she had murmured to an aunt, waving her hand expansively.
Neither of them said that I had purchased the property. Neither of them mentioned that I had paid for every single feature they were currently boasting about.
I had stood in the corner, holding a tray of appetizers, feeling completely invisible in my own home.
After that evening, my home became the official location for every family holiday.
Thanksgiving. Christmas. Easter. The Fourth of July.
My parents invited guests without speaking to me and simply announced that each celebration would take place at our lake house. Notice the pronoun they used. Our lake house.
But nothing about the expense or effort was ever shared.
I purchased the finest steaks, the fresh salmon, the wine, the propane, the decorations, and the desserts. I covered the enormous electricity bills after they insisted on keeping the patio doors wide open while the air conditioner struggled hopelessly against the brutal Arizona heat.
Bethany regularly brought her friends over to swim in my pool. They spilled sticky beverages on the stones, blocked the expensive filters with sunscreen and hair, destroyed my plush towels, and tracked mud across the deck.
When each gathering ended, my relatives drove away laughing, their stomachs full and their social media feeds updated.
I remained behind.
I stayed with the overflowing garbage bags, the stained fabrics, the broken furnishings, and the exorbitant bills from professional cleaners.
They posed beside the water and uploaded pictures of their extravagant family getaways, harvesting likes and envious comments from their friends.
I stayed behind, scraping congealed grease from the stove.
May you like
Even so, I had continued agreeing. I had told myself that I was preserving family harmony. I believed that eventually, my mother would express genuine gratitude. I hoped that someday, my father might admit publicly that the property was an achievement that belonged to me. I thought perhaps one day Bethany would arrive carrying more than just her designer handbag.
That day never arrived. And as I stood looking at the lake, I realized it never would.
