I Arrived at My Beach House to Find It Under Construction. By Morning, They Were Knocking at 6 a.m.

to stay upright. The bed was gone. My grandmother’s carved wooden armoire, that heirloom that had survived three generations, had been moved who knows where. The walls were half-painted a mint green I would never have chosen. Tools littered every surface, wires hung from the ceiling, and the penetrating smell of fresh paint made me dizzy.

“Where is continue reading …