Sonny leads the way up the turret, whose staircase has been revamped and widened. Although my heart didn’t want to change a thing about my beloved childhood hideaway, Trish had warned the staircase was, in her words, a lawsuit waiting to happen so, at great cost and anxiety, I had Frank blow out the opening and build an easy-to-climb staircase—with a rail—for guests. I found some vintage curtains my grandmother had used long ago in her bedroom—forest green with scenes of deer and rabbit scampering through a forest of sugar maples, their leaves ablaze in fall color—and reupholstered the cushions my father had made for the turret’s circular seat. A mix of new and old end tables, along with two ottomans topped with vintage trays, have been placed for guests to set their drinks and food. I added a small wet bar and a microwave—which Frank cleverly notched into a space once eaten up by the old circular staircase—to serve wine and appetizers at sunset.

I take a seat, and the view takes my breath. I briefly think of the hole in the roof that greeted me not so long ago, but the spectacular view of the lakeshore again transports me. In the haze, I can see my life as it was flashed before my eyes: as a young girl playing in the waves with my parents, as a teenager lying out with my friends, as a new mom building sandcastles with Evan.

Now, I’m alone, I think.

As if reading my mind, Sonny nestles next to me. Stroking his fur relaxes me, and I think of how strong he was to survive, how strong I am to have survived, and I picture myself as a modern-day Wonder Woman who has somehow overcome the odds.

You are the unconventional woman, I can hear Iris say.