That country house was the last gift my late parents ever gave me, and for a long time I treated it like something I had to guard with both hands.

That summer, I kept the photo album my mother made in my nightstand because some things felt too alive to leave on a shelf.

Then Diane’s white SUV rolled up the gravel drive.

The weekend Diane came, I was barefoot in the kitchen chopping tomatoes, Aaron was outside by the grill, and our seven-year-old son Max was lining plastic sharks along the pool steps.

Diane was Aaron’s mom, and she had been mistaking access for permission for as long as I had known her. If a key existed, she believed it was an invitation. If a door was unlocked, she took that as affection.

“Surprise!” she sang, climbing out in red lipstick and oversized sunglasses. “The girls needed a getaway.”

She kissed the air near my cheek and brushed past me.

Three women I barely knew got out behind her, all carrying overnight bags.

I stepped onto the porch.

“Diane, you didn’t call.”

“Oh, don’t be so uptight. Family doesn’t need invitations.”

Her friends followed her inside, smiling the uncertain smiles of people who had clearly been told this was no big deal.

“You can’t bring people here without asking us.”

Aaron came around from the side yard, tongs still in one hand.

“Diane,” he said. “What are you doing?”

She laughed.

“Giving everyone a nice weekend. You’re welcome.”

She waved him off without giving his words a second thought.

Then they came out to the pool wearing my swimsuits.

By six, they had opened my wine, moved Max’s toys into a storage basket “to tidy up,” and spread themselves across the house like hotel guests who planned to leave a bad review. One had asked if we kept extra candles “for ambiance.” Another had opened the hall closet and started helping herself to towels before I answered.

One woman had squeezed herself into the black one-piece I bought for my first summer back after Mom died, the seams straining at the hips. Another wore my linen cover-up, dragging the hem through wet grass and mud. Diane had on a sunhat that belonged to me too.