They Held A Family Reunion At My Lake House But Didn't Invite Me. I Showed Up With The Police...

Let me start this story where the smell of betrayal was literally thick enough to choke on, even though I was a hundred miles away. This whole mess, this absolutely nuclear, take-no-prisoners family feud, started with a single, innocuous text message and a very unsettling smell of smoked ribs.

It was a crisp Saturday morning in early November. I was finally enjoying a quiet weekend alone in my city apartment. My name is Amelia, by the way, and I value peace and quiet the way a miser values gold. My phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was my cousin, Jessica. Now, Jessica is usually the last person in my family to ever initiate contact with me, unless she needs something, which, in our family dynamic, is usually the case. She’s the queen of the ‘accidental’ pocket-dial that somehow happens right when she’s standing near a new appliance she wants, or near the Lake House.

The text was short, way too cheerful, and instantly suspicious: "Hey! Just wanted to say thanks for the use of the place this weekend! The weather is perfect for a big group. You’re missing out on this barbecue, seriously. Wish you were here!"

I read it once. Then twice. My blood went from relaxed to a full, rolling boil in about half a second. The use of the place? What place? There was only one "place" she could be talking about: my lake house. The beautiful, rustic, three-bedroom vacation home I had painstakingly saved up for and bought five years ago on the stunning Lake Serenity. It was my sanctuary, my escape pod from the relentless grind of city life, and the only piece of property in my entire family that actually belonged to me.

And here’s the kicker: I hadn't given anyone permission to use it. Not this weekend, not next weekend, not any weekend. I hadn't even been there myself in a month.

I typed back, trying to keep my fingers from smashing the screen: "Jessica, what are you talking about? Which place? And what barbecue?"

Her response was delayed, a sure sign that she was currently in the middle of a massive, un-sanctioned party and hadn't expected me to reply so fast. When it finally came, it was infuriatingly vague: "Oops, must have been a typo! Forget I said anything! Enjoy your weekend!"

Yeah, right. I knew that gaslighting tactic. But I didn't need her to confirm it. I had something far better than an awkward text conversation to figure out what was going on. I have a robust security system installed at the lake house, complete with motion-activated cameras and live feeds, partly for insurance, and mostly because I’d learned long ago you can't trust my family.

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