The morning after Cullen and Blythe left, I found three coffee cups drying beside the sink.
I had washed them the night before, but I had forgotten to put them away.
I stood there looking at them longer than necessary.
The conversation had been calm enough.
Nobody had shouted.
Nobody had slammed a door.
Yet I could still hear Cullen saying that he never meant to hurt me.
I believed he might have meant that.
What I could not understand was why he seemed to think his intentions should settle everything else.
I put the cups away and made breakfast.
Then I checked my phone.
There were two messages from friends and a reminder about an appointment.
Nothing from Cullen.
I told myself that he might need time to think.
He had admitted that he expected me to agree to the transfer.
He had heard me say that I had not agreed.
Perhaps he was finally considering the difference.
I did not want to assume the worst.
I had spent enough time doing that in recent days.
But I also knew that silence could be a way of avoiding a difficult answer.
I decided not to contact him.
I had asked him to correct what he had told people.
I had explained what I expected.
If I called again, I would only be repeating myself.
Instead, I took the folder from the desk drawer and reviewed the papers my attorney had asked me to preserve.
The deed was still there.
The tax statement was behind it.
The document Miles had sent was in a separate sleeve.
My handwritten timeline sat at the back.
I checked each item and returned it to its place.
Then I locked the drawer.
I did not enjoy keeping my property papers under lock and key.
But I had learned that something could be familiar to a family without belonging to everyone in it.
That afternoon, I drove to the beach house.
I had planned to stay only long enough to check the windows and collect the mail.
The weather had turned cooler, and a steady wind moved through the grass beside the road.
When I arrived, I found a few dry leaves gathered against the porch steps.
I swept them away.
The blue cushions were still where I had left them.
I carried them inside because rain was expected later in the week.
Then I checked the back door and walked through the rooms.
Everything looked ordinary.
The kitchen table was clean.
The curtains were drawn halfway.
My husband's fishing hat remained on its hook near the back door.
I had begun to notice how often I looked at that hat whenever I came here.
It reminded me of the life we had built together.
It also reminded me that he had trusted me to make decisions after he was gone.
He had never asked me to promise that the house would belong to Cullen.
We had talked about the future, of course.
We had talked about making sure our son would be all right.
But we had never turned those conversations into a transfer agreement.
We had never decided that my right to remain the owner should end simply because Cullen wanted something.
I stood in the kitchen and looked at the counter.
There was a small mark near the edge where the wood had darkened over time.
My husband had made it years ago while repairing a cabinet hinge.
He had apologized, then spent twenty minutes trying to make the mark disappear.
I had told him it was fine.
The mark stayed.
Now I ran my thumb across it and smiled faintly.
Not every imperfection needed to be repaired.
Some things simply became part of a place.
I wondered whether Cullen understood that the house meant more to me than its market value.
He knew the price.
He knew the number of bedrooms.
He knew the view and the distance to the water.
He had spoken about its value more than once.
But I was not sure he understood what I saw when I looked at the old cabinet, the porch chairs, or the hat by the back door.
I was not sure he had asked himself what the house meant to me at all.
I made a note to check the gutters before leaving.
Then I gathered the mail and returned to my car.
On the drive home, I passed a furniture store displaying a large dining table in its front window.
For some reason, it reminded me of Cullen's wedding plans.
I had never been told the full details of those plans.
I knew the wedding was supposed to be an important event for Blythe's family.
I knew they cared about appearances and wanted everything to look polished.
I also knew that Cullen had excluded me because he believed my presence would not fit the image they wanted to present.
That hurt had not disappeared just because the property dispute had taken over my attention.
The two things were connected in my mind.
He had decided that I did not belong at the wedding.
Then he had acted as if the house should belong to him.
In one situation, he had treated me as someone who might lower his standing.
In the other, he had treated me as someone whose property could help him raise it.
I did not know whether he had thought about that contradiction.
I did know that I could no longer pretend it did not exist.
When I got home, there was a message from Blythe.
She asked whether I had received any further communication from Cullen.
I replied that I had not.
She wrote back that he was upset and had been quiet since our meeting.
I read the message twice.
I could picture Cullen sitting in a room, refusing to talk because the conversation had not ended the way he wanted.
I could also picture Blythe trying to manage his mood while worrying about her own plans.
Neither picture gave me a reason to change my answer.
I sent her one more message.
I understand that he is upset. I am willing to talk when he is ready to be honest about the property and what he told people.*
She replied with a simple acknowledgment.
I put the phone down.
That evening, I made soup and ate at the kitchen table.
I had become accustomed to keeping my phone nearby in case Cullen called.
This time, I left it on the counter while I ate.
The meal was quiet.
I could hear the refrigerator humming and the occasional car passing outside.
When I finished, I washed my bowl and wiped the table.
Then I sat in the living room with a book.
I read the same page three times before realizing I had not absorbed a word.
My thoughts kept returning to the question of whether Cullen would correct his story.
He had not promised that he would.
He had only admitted that he had expected me to agree.
I wondered how long I should wait before asking again.
My attorney had advised me to give him a reasonable opportunity.
I decided I would wait a few days.
If nothing changed, I would ask once more, in writing.
I would not chase him through repeated calls.
I would not argue with him about his feelings.
And I would not let his silence become another reason for me to surrender a decision I had never made.
The next morning, I found a missed call from Cullen.
There was no voicemail.
I did not call him back immediately.
I made coffee first.
Then I checked the weather and opened the curtains.
Only after those ordinary tasks were done did I return the call.
He answered quickly.
“Mom.”
“Hello, Cullen.”
“I was calling yesterday.”
“I saw the missed call.”
He was quiet.
“I've been thinking about what you said.”
I waited.
“I don't want this hanging over us.”
“Neither do I.”
“I just need you to understand that I was trying to make plans for the future.”
“I understand that you were making plans.”
He exhaled.
“Then why can't we move forward?”
“Because you told people something had happened when it had not.”
He said nothing.
I continued.
“I need you to correct that statement. After that, we can discuss whatever future plans you want to discuss, as long as you understand that the decision about the house is mine.”
“I don't know who I need to talk to.”
“You know who you spoke to.”
“That could be more people than you think.”
I held the phone a little more firmly.
“Then you should make a list.”
He did not respond.
I could hear him moving around, perhaps walking from one room to another.
“Mom, I don't want to humiliate myself.”
“I am not asking you to humiliate yourself. I am asking you to correct something that was not true.”
“People will ask questions.”
“You can answer them honestly.”
He sighed.
“You make it sound easy.”
“No. I am saying it is necessary.”
There was a long silence.
Finally, he said he would think about it.
I told him that was his choice.
We ended the call without an argument.
I sat at the table afterward and wrote down the date and time.
I included the fact that he had said he did not know whom he needed to contact.
I did not write that he had refused.
He had not refused outright.
But he had not agreed either.
I placed the notebook in the folder and closed the drawer.
I had given him another opportunity.
Now I would see what he did with it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: The Wedding Plans Continued Without Me, While My Son Still Wouldn’t Say Whether He Had Corrected the Story About My House
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 13 of 20
