My mother looked across the dinner table with a smile and said, “We’re transferring the cottage his parents gave you to your sister.”
For a moment, I wondered if I had heard her correctly.
We were gathered in my parents’ dining room in Milwaukee, six weeks before my wedding. My fiancé, Ethan Cole, sat beside me. My sister, Madison, was opposite us, slowly swirling wine in her glass as though this decision had already been settled.
“The cottage?” I said.
Mom nodded. “Madison needs it more. You and Ethan have plenty.”
Madison laughed. “Calm down, Claire. It’s only a cottage.”
Only a cottage.
I could still remember the scent of those pine walls from the weekend Ethan proposed there.
I could still picture his mother wrapping the brass key in tissue paper and placing it into my palm with tears filling her eyes. It had never seemed like real estate.
It represented trust.
Ethan’s parents had purchased the small cedar house on Lake Geneva thirty years before. They had raised their children there, scattered ashes there, celebrated Christmas mornings there.
When they chose to downsize, they transferred the property to me as a wedding gift because, as Ethan’s mother said, “You’re the one who made this family feel bigger.”
I looked at Ethan.
He was watching my mother.
Then he lowered his fork.
“You cannot give Claire’s property away.”
Dad sighed. “Nobody’s giving anything away. We’re keeping it within the family.”
Ethan kept his voice steady.
“My parents gave it to Claire. Her name is on the deed.”
That was when Madison grinned.
“Not anymore.”
The atmosphere shifted.
I felt Ethan’s hand tighten around mine.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Mom picked up her napkin. “We took care of the paperwork last week. Madison will take over the place after your wedding.”
My stomach sank.
“You signed something using my name?”
Dad snapped, “Don’t accuse your mother of committing a crime.”
“I asked one question.”
