When my stepmother Carla threw a party at my late mother’s sacred lake house using stolen keys, I thought I’d have to teach her a lesson. Instead, karma did it for me.

The lake house was all Mom left me, but it was everything. She had bought it before meeting Dad, pouring her spirit into every corner. Growing up, it was her sanctuary, where she painted while I played. After she died, I protected it like a shrine, preserving even the pillow embroidered with her words: “Still waters, strong heart.”

Dad quickly remarried Carla, a woman who erased Mom’s presence from our family home. She mocked Mom’s quilts, art, and “whimsical” style. I made it clear when I inherited the lake house at 21: nobody else was allowed there. Carla smiled sweetly and pretended to agree.

But on the fifth anniversary of Mom’s death, I found strangers’ cars in the driveway. Music boomed as Carla poured wine in my mother’s kitchen. Her friends laughed while one used Mom’s pillow as a footrest. It was desecration.

Carla brushed off my confrontation, calling me “dramatic” and insisting Mom wouldn’t want me to cling to grief. I smiled—and then called my lawyer. She didn’t know I’d installed security cameras. Footage showed her unlocking the door, mocking Mom’s art, and texting friends to “party at the hippie hut.”

The evidence was damning. Carla’s lawyer quit after learning Mom had once helped his wife. My attorney pressed charges, and Carla faced trespassing, theft, and a civil judgment. The judge issued a restraining order, and I billed her $1,800 for Mom’s broken stained glass.

Two months later, Carla was gone. Dad finally saw her cruelty for what it was. Now, the lake house is mine alone—a sanctuary I’ll guard forever. Karma wrote Carla’s ending perfectly.