“Remember, we have to recite all the rules before our sparklers go out,” Evan says, his voice warbling with excitement. “First rule of the summer cottage, go!”

“Leave your troubles...” I start.

As I say the words, a chorus of voices joins me. Suddenly, the front yard is illuminated. People are lighting sparklers, and it looks as if a million fireflies are in the air. The guests are holding the Cottage Rules cards I had printed for guests in front of their faces.

My heart leaps into my throat. “Evan...” I say, tears now racing down my face as people recite the first rule.

“Leave your troubles at the door!” the guests yell.

“The second rule of the summer cottage?” Evan calls.

“Soak up the sun!” everyone yells.

“Rule number three?”

“Nap often!”

“Four?”

“Wake up smiling!”

“Five?”

“Build a bonfire!”

We recite every rule as quickly as we can—go rock hunting, dinner is a family activity, ice cream is required, be grateful for each day, go jump in the lake, build a sandcastle, boat rides are a shore thing, everyone must be present for sunset—until we get to the last one.

“And what’s the final rule, Mom?” Evan asks. “I just want you to answer.”

I look out at the guests, their sparklers ablaze.

“Shake the sand from your feet, but never shake the memories of our summer cottage. It is family.”

As I finish, the sparklers fizz out, and the world goes dark. Guests break into applause, and Evan draws me in for a long hug.

“You did it in time!” he says. Evan stops and looks at me. “I love you more than anything, Mom.”

“I love you, too.”

Evan heads off the porch and down the stairs.

For a brief moment, I stand alone on the front porch, feeling just as happy as the little girl who knew she’d be spending her summers here at an old, shingled cottage sitting on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. It is just me and the cottage again. The cool wind coming off the lake whistles, the leaves rustle in the aspen trees, and the needles of the tall pines surrounding the cottage quiver.

The cottage moans, as if it’s happily yawning at the end of a wonderful day, and then I hear Scooter yell, “One more surprise! Adie Lou, where are you?”

I step inside and grab my shoes off the rug. There is sand on it, and I smile. I pull them on, scuttle down the steps and take Scooter’s hand.

“There’s my bride!” Scooter says. “Follow us!”

The crowd murmurs as we head down the beach stairs, which are illuminated with beautiful paper luminaries. The beach is aglow with candles, and the guests begin to yell, “Look! Look!” when they see the Adie Lou bobbing on the lake.