My sister announced in the family group chat that I was officially banned from the reunion—and made it clear no one was to tell me where it would be. I didn’t argue. I didn’t reply. I simply opened the location pin… and laughed so hard I had to cover my mouth.

A formal incident summary drafted for my attorney.

Then I call Tidemark.

The owner of the company, a man named Russell I have met exactly twice, is suddenly available in a tone that suggests he has been awake all night dreading this call.

His explanation is complicated in the way incompetence often is. A new admin. A scheduling error. A temporary intake spreadsheet improperly shared between maintenance and vendor coordination. My mother apparently called claiming to be “working on behalf of ownership” and knew just enough terminology about the property to sound legitimate. The house had once been internally labeled as “off-market owner use only,” but a staff member misread the note and treated it like a private direct booking case requiring only an access code and cleaning prep.

In other words: a cascade of small failures.

I listen. Take notes. Let him sweat.

He offers fee waivers, formal apologies, staff review, legal cooperation, a complimentary season of full-service property monitoring, and whatever else he thinks might keep me from pursuing litigation aggressively.

I tell him my attorney will be in touch.

Because she will.