When my mom passed away, she left me her lake house—a place I cherished and kept just as she had. My dad remarried quickly to Carla, who mocked Mom and threw out her handmade quilts and paintings. At 21, the lake house became mine, and I made it clear no one else was allowed in. Carla smirked, calling it Mom’s “little fairy cottage.” This June, on Mom’s fifth anniversary, I took the day off to spend time alone there. But when I got there, four cars were parked, loud music was blasting, and Carla