For the next several days, I tried to give Cullen the time he had asked for.
I did not call him every morning.
I did not send another message explaining what I had already explained.
I went about my ordinary life, although ordinary things seemed to require more thought than they had before.
When I made coffee, I found myself looking at the folder on the kitchen counter.
When the telephone rang, I wondered whether it would be Cullen.
When it wasn't, I reminded myself that I had no reason to expect him to call.
That was the strange part.
For years, I had treated his silence as something I needed to fix.
If he seemed upset, I reached out.
If he sounded disappointed, I tried to find out what I could do.
If he told me something was difficult, I began thinking about how to make it easier for him.
I had called that being a good mother.
I was beginning to understand that sometimes I had simply been afraid of disappointing my son.
The distinction was uncomfortable.
It was also necessary.
On Monday morning, I returned to my attorney's office with the list of questions I had written in my notebook.
The paper had become soft along the folded edge because I had carried it in my handbag for several days.
I placed it on the broad desk beside the folder containing the house documents.
My attorney read through the questions without interrupting.
I had written about maintenance costs, future plans, taxes, and whether selling the house might make sense at some point.
At the bottom, I had added another question.
What do I actually want?
My attorney looked up when she reached it.
"That may be the most important one on the page."
"I was afraid you would say that."
She smiled.
"Why?"
"Because I thought the practical questions would be easier."
"They often are."
She turned the notebook toward me.
"We can calculate expenses. We can review ownership records. We can discuss different estate arrangements. But none of those things tells you what you want your life to look like."
I looked at the question again.
For a long time, I had imagined the beach house as something that would eventually pass to Cullen.
Not because I had signed anything.
Not because I had made a formal promise.
It was simply what I assumed would happen.
My husband and I had bought the property together fourteen years earlier.
We had spent years making it comfortable, repairing what needed repair, and slowly turning an ordinary beach house into a place that felt like ours.
After my husband died, I became its sole legal owner.
I had continued visiting it because I loved being there.
At some point, without making a conscious decision, I had started thinking of myself as its temporary caretaker.
I had imagined Cullen inheriting it one day.
I had never stopped to ask whether that was still what I wanted.
"I think I confused an expectation with a decision," I said.
My attorney nodded.
"That happens in families. The important thing is that you recognize the difference before you make a decision you don't want."
She explained the questions we needed to consider.
If I kept the house, I would need to plan for its upkeep as I grew older.
If I sold it, I could use the money for other things.
If I wanted Cullen to inherit it, I could make that intention clear in my estate documents.
If I wanted to leave it to someone else, divide the value differently, or make another arrangement, those choices would also need careful consideration.
None of those possibilities required an immediate answer.
I appreciated hearing that.
I had spent so much time responding to Cullen's urgency that I had started believing every question needed to be settled as soon as he asked it.
My attorney reminded me that there was no reason to rush merely because someone else wanted certainty.
"What about the document Miles sent?" I asked.
She opened the folder and examined the copy again.
"We have already discussed what it appears to be. It does not establish that a completed transfer took place. The property records we reviewed still identify you as the owner."
"And Cullen knows that now."
"According to what you've told me, yes."
I traced the edge of the paper with one finger.
"I don't want to turn this into a legal battle with my son."
"Then don't make that your starting point. Your starting point is protecting your own interests and making sure your wishes are properly documented."
She paused.
"You can love someone without giving them control over your decisions."
I had heard variations of that thought before.
This time, I let it settle.
We spent another hour reviewing my existing estate documents.
Some needed updating.
Others required clarification.
There were questions about who would handle certain responsibilities if I became unable to manage them myself.
There were also practical matters I had postponed because they reminded me of my husband's death.
I had told myself that I would deal with them when I felt ready.
Years had passed.
I was not sure what being ready was supposed to feel like.
My attorney did not pressure me to make every choice that morning.
Instead, she helped me separate the decisions that needed attention soon from the decisions that could wait.
Before I left, I asked her one more question.
"Is it wrong that I don't know whether I want Cullen to have the house?"
"No."
She answered without hesitation.
"You're allowed to take time to decide. You're also allowed to change your mind before you finalize your plans."
I looked down at the notebook.
"I think I need to hear that more than once."
"Then write it down."
I did.
Under my original question, I wrote:
I am allowed to decide what I want.
I underlined it once.
Then I closed the notebook and returned it to my handbag.
Outside, the afternoon was bright and warm.
I stopped at a small café on the way home and ordered a cup of coffee.
I sat near the window and watched people walk past with shopping bags, children, and dogs pulling at their leashes.
Nobody looking at me would have known that I had spent the morning discussing ownership, inheritance, and the uncomfortable realization that I had allowed an unspoken assumption to guide my thinking for years.
I looked at my telephone.
There was a message from Blythe.
She had written that she hoped I was doing well and that she was sorry things had become so painful.
I read it twice before answering.
I told her I was taking time to review my plans and that I appreciated her apology.
I did not tell her that everything was fine.
It wasn't.
But I also didn't feel the need to make her feel better about that.
She replied a few minutes later.
She said she understood and would give me space.
I put the telephone away.
When I returned home, I placed the attorney's notes beside my folder.
Then I opened my calendar.
I had planned to visit the beach house that weekend.
I decided to keep the plan.
I wanted to spend time there without turning every room into evidence in an argument with Cullen.
I wanted to remember why I had loved the place before its value became the center of a family disagreement.
On Saturday morning, I packed a small bag and drove to the coast.
The familiar road brought back memories of the first trip my husband and I had made to see the property.
We had stopped twice because he wanted to look at the water from different stretches of the road.
He had insisted that a house near the beach should be judged by the sound of the waves as much as by the number of bedrooms.
I had laughed at him then.
I could almost hear that laugh now.
When I arrived, I unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
The house smelled faintly of salt and the cleaning products I used whenever I stayed there.
Sunlight fell across the living room floor.
The blue cushions were still arranged on the porch chairs where I had left them.
I set down my bag and opened the windows.
For several minutes, I stood quietly and listened to the ocean.
There was nothing unusual about the house.
Nothing had changed because Cullen expected to own it.
Nothing had changed because I had refused to promise it to him.
It was still the same place my husband and I had purchased together.
I walked through the rooms slowly.
In the kitchen, I noticed the small mark on the counter left after a cabinet repair years earlier.
My husband had tried to fix it himself before finally admitting that he needed someone with the proper tools.
He had joked about the repair for months.
I ran my fingers over the mark.
I had thought about leaving the house to Cullen because it was familiar and because I wanted him to have something meaningful from us.
That feeling had not disappeared.
But it was no longer the only feeling I needed to consider.
I also wanted to be able to come here without worrying that I was occupying a place someone else considered his.
I wanted to make repairs when I thought they were necessary.
I wanted to sell if the time came when maintaining the property no longer made sense.
I wanted to be able to invite people without checking whether my son had already made plans.
Those wishes were not selfish.
They were ordinary.
I sat on the porch with a cup of coffee and opened my notebook.
Under the question about what I wanted, I wrote a few more lines.
I want to keep enjoying the house while I can.
I want my decisions to be mine.
I want Cullen in my life, but I don't want my relationship with him to depend on giving him this property.
I read the words several times.
They did not settle the inheritance question.
They did, however, tell me something I had been avoiding.
I could not decide whether Cullen should inherit the beach house until I stopped treating his disappointment as the most important consequence of every possible choice.
I closed the notebook.
Later that afternoon, I walked along the beach.
The wind had picked up, and the water moved in long, uneven lines toward the shore.
I thought about my husband.
He had never been a man who explained every feeling he had.
But he had always understood that owning something meant taking responsibility for it.
When we bought the house, we discussed the cost, the repairs, and the years of work it would require.
We had not bought it because we believed our son would someday be entitled to it.
We had bought it because we wanted a place of our own.
That was the truth I needed to remember.
By evening, I felt calmer.
I made a simple dinner, washed the dishes, and left the kitchen clean.
Before going to bed, I checked my telephone one last time.
There was no message from Cullen.
I put it on the nightstand and turned off the light.
For once, I did not interpret his silence as a problem I needed to solve.
I let the night remain quiet.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN AN EXPECTATION AND A PROMISE
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 17 of 20
