The alarm went off at five in the morning.

For once, I didn’t hit snooze.

I reached over, shut it off before it could beep again, and slipped quietly out of bed.

Daniel was still asleep beside me, one arm across his face, breathing deeply.

I pulled on yesterday’s gray sweatshirt, tiptoed across the old wooden floor, avoided the board near the door that always creaked, and went downstairs.

The house was still dark.

Outside the kitchen window, the lake looked like a sheet of black glass.

No wind.

No birds.

Just the low hum of my mother’s old refrigerator.

My mother’s kitchen.

That mattered to me much more that morning than it had a week earlier.

Mom owns a little cabin by the lake.

Nothing luxurious.

Two stories.

Cedar siding.

A green metal roof.

A screened porch.

A wooden deck overlooking the water.

Three bedrooms upstairs and one bathroom everyone complains about sharing.

The kitchen still has orange countertops from the late seventies, and the living-room couch is older than I am.

My father bought the place the year I was born.

He paid for it after saving money from years of overtime at the paper mill.

He used to say it was the only thing he ever bought that became worth more to him every year.

Dad died when I was nineteen.

A heart attack.

Right there on the dock while fishing.

Afterward, Mom almost sold the cabin.

She couldn’t bear being there.

For two summers, she stayed away completely.

Then one June morning, she called me.

“I think I’m going to open the lake house.”

And she did.

She has spent every summer there since.

It belongs to her now.

She pays the taxes.

Repairs the roof.

Maintains the dock.

Plants every flower around the property.

Two summers ago, she climbed a ladder and painted all the shutters blue by herself.

I yelled at her for a week for doing it without help.

“Your father always wanted blue,” she told me.

That was Mom.

Daniel and I got married that spring.

May.

Small church ceremony.

Barn reception.

String lights.

Taco truck.

Nothing fancy.

That summer was the first time our families really spent extended time together.

And the first time Daniel’s parents, Susan and Richard, visited the lake cabin, Mom was more nervous than I had ever seen her.

She called me every night for a week.

“What do they like to eat?”

“Mom, normal food.”

“Does Susan drink tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, I think.”

“Any allergies?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What kind of pillows does Richard prefer?”

“Mom. I have absolutely no idea what kind of pillow my father-in-law likes.”

That didn’t stop her.

She drove into the city and bought brand-new sheets for the guest room.

Four-hundred-thread-count.

Pale blue.

New towels.

Fluffy white ones.

She even put together a little basket in the bathroom with miniature soaps, lotions, and a candle.

Like a hotel.

She scrubbed the entire cabin.

Washed every window.

Had the carpets professionally cleaned.

When I arrived the Friday before everyone else, I found her on her knees scrubbing baseboards with a toothbrush.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

“I want everything to be nice.”

“It is nice. It’s a lake cabin. Nobody expects perfection.”

She sat back on her heels.

“They’re family now.”

I looked at her.

“You married Daniel,” she continued. “So in a way, we’re all family now. I want them to feel welcome.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I got on the floor and helped her scrub.

That summer, the weather stayed beautiful.

Warm.

Clear.

Sunny almost every weekend.

So we came to the cabin constantly.

Me and Daniel.

Susan and Richard.

Mom.

And every weekend slowly became the same.

Mom got up at six every morning.

Before everyone else.

I would hear her downstairs.

Coffee brewing.

Pan on the stove.

Old country music playing softly from the radio.

She cooked breakfast for everyone.

Bacon.

Eggs.

Pancakes.

French toast.

Or her blueberry muffins from scratch.

Then she cleaned everything.

Every pan.

Every fork.

Every plate.

Then she stripped beds.

Washed towels.

Hung them outside.

Then she drove nearly forty minutes round-trip to the larger grocery store because Susan didn’t like the mayonnaise sold at the little store near the lake.

Susan only ate avocado-oil mayonnaise.

The expensive kind.

Eleven dollars a jar.

Mom learned that the first weekend when Susan took one bite of chicken salad and said,

“Oh. Is this regular mayonnaise?”

Mom drove into town the next morning.

She bought three jars.

Then she made lunch.

Cleaned lunch.

Made dinner.

Cleaned dinner.

Salmon.

Pot roast.

Chicken piccata.

Homemade pasta.

And every Saturday night, peach cobbler.

Why?

Because Richard mentioned once that he liked peach cobbler.

Mom remembered.

Of course she did.

Then around ten every night, she went to bed exhausted.

And at six the next morning, she started again.

Susan’s weekends looked slightly different.

She arrived Friday evening.

Walked through the cabin saying,

“Oh, this is so cute.”

Every single weekend.

As though she were seeing it for the first time.

Then she went straight outside.

There was one large lounger with a striped cushion in the center of the deck.

Best view of the lake.

Susan claimed it almost immediately.

Sunglasses.

Iced tea.

Phone.

And that was basically her weekend.

All summer, she never once offered to help.

Not once.

Eight weekends.

She never carried a plate to the sink.

Never chopped an onion.

Never wiped a countertop.

Never folded a towel.

She wouldn’t even bring her coffee mug back inside.

Every morning, it sat on the side table next to her chair.

By noon, it would leave a ring on the wood.

Mom would come out, pick it up, wipe the table, and carry the cup inside.

At first, Susan would say,

“Thanks, Maggie.”

Without looking up from her phone.

By July, she stopped saying that too.

That bothered me more than almost anything.