I said yes because it was my nephew’s birthday and I am the aunt who always turns up. That was how my magnificent home, which I had fought so hard to get, ended up being the site of a party I didn’t go to. I told my sister to be careful with the keys. I just finished everything. She stated I wouldn’t even know they were there.
I drove into my driveway two days later and knew something was wrong before I even opened the door. There was a balloon that was limp on the fence. The front door was unlocked. The smell hit me immediately when I walked in. The walls were sticky with grease, sugar, and something nasty. My perfect beige rug looked like a crime scene of Kool-Aid, with purple and red stains all over it.
The cream couch had fingerprints and melted wax on it. On the sofa table were plastic glasses and sticky cola rings. My flea market vase, which was a light green tint, broke. The floor had twisted because of the water. The fridge shelf in the kitchen was full of leaning stacks of paper plates, crusty pizza, and a cake that was all over the place.
I kept assuring myself that the yard would be fine. No, it wasn’t. The grass I had made into velvet was now flat and dirty. Candy wrappers twirled through my lavender. The roots ripped out my roses and threw them away. I had dug them up by hand, cared for them, and kept them healthy. I stood there with my purse on my shoulder and felt something inside me becoming extremely quiet.
I rang my sister. She laughed. “Stop being so dramatic.” It’s just a party for kids. You wouldn’t understand. When I told her the garden was wrecked and there were stains I could never get rid of, her voice got sharper. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask too much of a place that people will live in. You have a big, comfortable apartment to live by yourself. Jason needed a real party. You don’t even need it.
I asked her whether she did it on purpose. She didn’t say no. “You don’t know how hard it is to live in a small house.” You might get it now.
I hung up before I said anything I couldn’t take back. After the shock wore off, I did what most people do: I went to work. I paid someone to clean. The tech knelt down next to my rug and shook his head. “We can’t fix this.” Three thousand dollars went to repairs and new purchases. Landscapers cleaned out the dead roses and put in new dirt. I put the seal back on the roof. I got some new chairs. I kept the receipts as proof of betrayal.
My sister never stated she was sorry. She never gave a dollar. She sent a text two weeks later that said, “I hope you’re not still angry!” The finest birthday ever! You should feel happy you helped. I looked at the computer with my heart in my throat and understood that what was going on was not a mistake. It was jealousy that was dressed up for a party.
Then the universe did what it sometimes does. Her kitchen has a leak. The first story was flooded. The walls are broken. Mold spreading. The guess? A bit over three thousand dollars. It was virtually exactly what I had spent to fix my house. She called, angry and confident I was getting back at her. It wasn’t, of course. I wouldn’t want that to happen to anyone, not even her. The irony didn’t make me laugh when she hung up. When there is justice but no love, it doesn’t seem like winning. It’s just peaceful.
We didn’t say anything. The distance between us got bigger. But my nephew still came over when he could. We prepared cupcakes, watered the new roses, and he ran around the yard without shoes on like a small boy should. One afternoon, he laid his hand on the ground and looked up at me with a serious look on his face. “These are even better than the old ones.” I swallowed and messed up his hair. “They’re tough,” just like us.
I never told him this, but I built this mansion molecule by molecule. I painted my hair late at night. On the weekends, I crawl on my aching knees to sand the baseboards. I made a garden in my backyard by hand. Roses, lavender, and clematis climb a white pergola like a promise. I finally picked warm bulbs after spending hours in the lighting aisle. Instead of the quick couch, I waited for the right one. I didn’t obtain a home. I made a house.
That’s why the disarray after the celebration stung more than the stillness. I could clean or fix the stains, but the stillness told me that it didn’t matter what I did. That’s the price no one tells you: when you give up the softest part of your life and it comes back loud and careless.
I rebuilt anyway. Not for them. For me. The old rug was rougher than the new one. Let the marketers win this one: the couch won’t get ruined. The garden has altered, yet it is alive again. I sit under the pergola with a croissant and coffee some mornings and listen to the roses sway. They have new roots now, but they’re still mine.
Last weekend, I had several friends around. I placed candles outdoors, played nice music, and opened a bottle of wine I had been saving. The sound of laughter flooded the night like light. It looked like the first flower to bloom after a storm: beautiful and fragile. I raised my glass and silently promised myself that I would never again provide my keys to someone who regards my home as a place to hang out. My home has my money, my love, my hard work, and my peace of mind. I’ll make sure it’s safe.
