But to me, it was still the place where Mom used to sit beside the lake and tell me stories.
My stepmother had apparently been trying to arrange its sale.
Without telling Dad.
Without telling Grandma.
And without any legitimate authority to make that decision on my behalf.
The attorney looked toward the documents.
Then she said quietly, "This is much bigger than the residential program."
My father stared at his wife.
"What have you done?"
She began crying.
And the answer that finally emerged would change how our family understood almost everything she'd done since entering our home.
The truth came out slowly.
At first, my stepmother insisted there had been a misunderstanding. She said she'd only explored selling the lakeside property because she believed the money could be invested more effectively for my future.
My father asked why she hadn't discussed the idea with him.
She said he was always busy.
Then he asked why she'd used his signature.
She claimed she was simply helping with paperwork.
The attorney reminded her that signing another person's name without proper authorization wasn't a harmless administrative shortcut.
My stepmother began crying harder.
She said she felt excluded from the family.
She said my mother's memory dominated the house.
She said she was tired of feeling as though her contribution didn't matter because she hadn't been the woman who gave birth to us.
My father listened.
Then he asked about the residential school.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Finally, she admitted that she wanted me away from the house while she tried to persuade him to approve changes to the financial arrangements.
The attorney looked toward her.
"Why?"
My stepmother lowered her eyes.
Then she said, "Because every time I brought up the cottage, she started talking about her mother."
I wasn't in the room when she said it.
I learned those words years later.
But when I first read them in the written account of that conversation, I remember feeling something I couldn't explain.
The cottage wasn't valuable to me because of its price.
It was valuable because I remembered my mother sitting on the porch with a cup of tea and letting me braid ribbons into her hair.
My stepmother had apparently treated those memories as an obstacle.
And she wanted the obstacle removed before she tried to sell the property.
Her financial situation was worse than Dad knew.
Her event-consulting business had been struggling for more than a year.