My mother-in-law, Patricia, was her staunchest defender. “Alisa, you’re so fortunate to have that beautiful pool,” she’d say during family dinners, her tone dripping with condescension. “The least you can do is share it with the grandchildren. It’s not like you and David use it that much anyway.”

This, of course, was a lie. We loved our quiet evening swims and lazy weekend afternoons by the water. But correcting Patricia was like arguing with a brick wall. Over the years, the situation escalated. Cassidy began treating our home like her personal event space. She’d rearrange our outdoor furniture, use our grill without asking, and leave behind messes that took me hours to clean.