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On the fifth anniversary of Mom’s death, I drove up to the lake house and froze. Loud music, laughter, and four cars outside. Through the window, I saw Carla hosting a party. My mother’s embroidered pillow was being used as a footrest. I later discovered she had stolen the keys from my desk and invited friends over, mocking the house as a “hippie hut.” I didn’t confront her immediately. Instead, I relied on the security cameras I had installed months earlier.
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