When Margaret passed, I didn’t just inherit an inn. I inherited a legacy.
The Driftwood Haven was her soul’s work—a seaside inn tucked between salt-worn cliffs and wild roses. Every guest was greeted with her handwritten notes, her homemade lemon scones, and a warmth that couldn’t be taught. My husband, her son, asked me to take over. I said yes, thinking I’d honor her memory.
But honoring someone isn’t the same as preserving them.
I started with small changes. New linens. Updated menus. Brighter paint. Then came the bigger shifts—automated check-ins, digital guestbooks, and a rebrand that erased her name from the signage. I told myself it was progress. That she’d understand.
Business improved. Reviews soared. But something felt hollow.
One afternoon, a longtime guest asked, “Where’s Margaret’s touch?” I smiled politely. But inside, I crumbled. I’d scrubbed her presence from every corner. Not out of malice—but out of ambition. I hadn’t just taken over. I’d overwritten her.
That night, I found her journals. Pages filled with recipes, guest stories, and quiet reflections. She wrote about the inn as if it were a living thing. A place where people healed. Where they remembered who they were.
I cried. Not just for her—but for the version of myself that thought efficiency mattered more than soul.
So I began again.
I brought back her tea blends. Rehung her favorite paintings. Rewrote the welcome notes in her style. I even renamed the rooms after her favorite flowers. Slowly, the inn felt like hers again—and mine too, in a different way.
I didn’t mean to erase her. But I did.
And now, every choice I make is a whisper of apology. A quiet vow to remember.
Because legacy isn’t about preservation alone. It’s about presence. And Margaret’s is finally back—woven into every corner of The Driftwood Haven.
