The next two days passed without a document from Cullen.
He sent a message asking whether I had received a package that had been delivered to my old address.
He called once to ask about a family birthday.
He even sent me a photograph of a meal he had ordered at a restaurant.
None of those messages mentioned the house.
I answered the ordinary questions when they needed an answer.
I did not use every conversation as an opportunity to bring up the dispute.
I had already asked him clearly.
The next move was his.
On the second afternoon, Miles called.
I was sorting receipts at the kitchen table when his name appeared on the screen.
I answered.
“I found something,” he said.
I set down the pen.
“What did you find?”
“The document Cullen showed me. I want to make sure I send you the right pages.”
“Thank you. Please send all the pages you have.”
“I will.”
He hesitated.
“There is something else I should tell you.”
I waited.
“When Cullen first talked about the house, he said you were giving it to him. Later, he said the paperwork was already finished.”
I felt my shoulders tighten.
“Did he say when I had agreed to give it to him?”
“He said you had discussed it and that you wanted him to have it eventually.”
“That is not an agreement to transfer it.”
“I understand that now.”
I did not answer immediately.
Miles continued.
“I believed him because he spoke as if it was settled. He showed me something with property information on it. I didn't question it.”
“Did you see my signature?”
“I don't remember seeing one. I should have looked more carefully.”
“Do you remember what the document was called?”
“He called it a deed.”
I wrote the word in my notebook.
“Did he say it had been recorded?”
“He said the transfer had been completed in June.”
I stopped writing.
“June?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator.
June was several months behind us.
I had spent that month paying the property tax bill and renewing the insurance.
I had never met with anyone to transfer the house.
I had never signed a deed.
“Did he give you a specific date?”
“No. He made it sound as if the paperwork was done and everyone was waiting for the next steps.”
“What next steps?”
“Planning, mostly. He talked about how the house would be used.”
I asked Miles whether he had made any financial decisions based on Cullen's statement.
He said he had not paid money for the property or signed a contract.
He had, however, repeated what Cullen told him when discussing future plans.
“I should have spoken to you,” he said. “I didn't think I needed to because Cullen said everything was settled.”
“I understand why you believed someone you knew.”
“I don't want you to think I was trying to take something from you.”
“I don't know what happened yet. I am trying to establish the facts.”
He thanked me for saying that.
We ended the call, and I sat quietly with my pen in my hand.
The June detail bothered me.
Not because it changed the ownership records.
The attorney had already checked those.
It bothered me because Cullen had attached a date to something that had never happened.
He had not merely spoken about a future possibility.
He had described a completed transaction.
I added the new information to my timeline.
Then I waited for the document.
It arrived by email about twenty minutes later.
The subject line read, *Document Cullen showed me.*
I opened the message but did not immediately open the attachment.
Instead, I called the attorney's office.
I told the receptionist that I had received a document related to the beach house and asked whether I could forward it for review.
She said I could send it to the address the attorney had provided.
I thanked her, then opened the attachment.
The file contained several pages.
I read them slowly.
There were references to the property, including information that matched the address and some of the details in my own records.
But the pages did not look like the recorded deed in my folder.
I did not try to decide what they meant.
I did not know whether I was looking at a draft, a proposed transfer, or something else.
The signature area was not enough for me to draw a conclusion.
I was not an attorney.
I did not want to turn a troubling document into a mistaken accusation by guessing at its purpose.
I forwarded the file to my attorney with a brief note.
This is the document Miles says Cullen showed him. Please review it and let me know what it is and whether it has any legal effect.*
Then I printed a copy.
I placed it in a separate sleeve inside the folder.
I did not write on it.
I did not mark it with arrows or circles.
I wanted the document preserved exactly as it had been sent to me.
After that, I called Miles to confirm that I had received the complete file.
He said he had sent everything he had.
I thanked him again.
“I am sorry this has put you in the middle,” I said.
“You didn't put me there. I accepted what Cullen told me.”
He paused.
“I should have checked with you before talking about the house as if it belonged to him.”
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
It was the first time I had said that to him without trying to soften it.
He accepted it.
We ended the call on reasonable terms.
For a few minutes, I felt relief.
At least the document was no longer an unknown thing that Cullen could use to keep me guessing.
I had a copy.
My attorney had a copy.
And I could stop asking myself whether I had somehow imagined the conversation with Miles.
Then Cullen called.
I answered because I wanted to hear what he would say.
“Did Miles send you something?”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause.
“He shouldn't have done that without talking to me.”
“He sent me a document about my property.”
“It was my document.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was handling the planning.”
“Planning what?”
“You know what.”
“No, Cullen. I don't.”
He sounded irritated.
“Mom, I told you I was going to deal with it.”
“You said you would send me the document. You didn't.”
“I hadn't had time.”
“Miles sent it.”
Another pause.
“Have you shown it to your attorney?”
“Yes.”
His voice changed.
“You didn't need to do that.”
“I did not know what the document was.”
“You could have asked me.”
“I did ask you. More than once.”
He began speaking faster.
“It wasn't a final deed. It was part of the process. Everyone knew the house was going to be mine.”
I held the phone tightly.
“Everyone who?”
“People who matter to the plans.”
“What plans, Cullen?”
He let out a frustrated breath.
“You keep asking questions as if I have done something terrible.”
“I am asking what you told people.”
“I told them what I believed was going to happen.”
“Then why did you tell Miles the transfer was completed in June?”
He went silent.
I could hear a faint background noise, perhaps traffic.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower.
“I may have said it was done because I thought it was going to be done.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“I know that now.”
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted that sentence to mean he understood why I was upset.
But he continued before I could respond.
“You have to understand how things looked from my side. We had talked about the house. You never said I would never get it.”
“I never said you would get it.”
“You never said you wouldn't.”
I stared at the kitchen wall.
There it was again.
The idea that my silence had been a kind of agreement.
“Cullen, I did not have to tell you that you would never own the house. You needed my agreement before telling people that you already did.”
He did not answer.
I went on.
“I am not going to argue about what you hoped would happen. I am asking you to correct what you said happened.”
“Correct it with whom?”
“With anyone you told that the property had been transferred.”
He made a small, disbelieving sound.
“You want me to call everyone and tell them I was wrong?”
“If that is what you told them, yes.”
He did not speak for several seconds.
Then he said, “You have no idea what you're asking me to do.”
“I know exactly what I am asking.”
“You're going to embarrass me.”
“I am asking you to be accurate.”
He ended the call.
I lowered the phone and placed it on the table.
I did not cry.
I had thought I might.
Instead, I felt a strange stillness.
Cullen had finally acknowledged that he might have described the transfer as completed because he expected it to happen.
He had admitted that he knew the two things were different.
That was more than he had said before.
It was also less than I needed.
I wrote down the conversation while I could still remember the exact wording.
I included his statement that he had told people what he believed was going to happen.
I included his admission that he might have said the transfer was done because he thought it would be done.
Then I added the time of the call.
I did not write that he had lied.
I wrote what he had said.
That afternoon, I received a reply from my attorney.
She had received the attachment and would review it before making any conclusions.
She asked me not to contact anyone else about the document until she had examined it.
I agreed.
I was grateful for the instruction.
I had no desire to make the situation larger.
I wanted it clearer.
That evening, I sat in the living room with a cup of tea.
The folder was locked in the desk drawer.
For the first time, I understood why I had been so unsettled by Cullen's refusal to send the paper.
As long as I had not seen it, he could keep the conversation focused on what he meant.
Once I had the document, there would be something concrete to examine.
Something separate from his expectations.
Something that did not change just because he became upset.
I finished my tea and washed the cup.
Then I turned off the kitchen light.
I still loved my son.
But love was no longer going to be the reason I ignored a question that needed an answer.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: When My Son Finally Admitted He Had Expected Me to Agree, I Stopped Treating His Expectations as Instructions
My Son Wanted the Benefits of Having a Mother, but When His Wedding Day Came, I Was No Longer Good Enough to Be Seen Beside Him
Part 11 of 20
