The first time Cullen mentioned a transfer, I thought I had misunderstood him.
We were speaking on the phone late in the afternoon.
I had just finished putting away the groceries when he asked whether I had received any paperwork concerning the beach house.
"What sort of paperwork?"
"Anything related to the property."
"No. Why?"
He paused.
"Just checking."
I waited for him to explain.
He didn't.
I asked whether there was something I needed to know.
He said no, then changed the subject.
The conversation ended a few minutes later.
I stood in the kitchen staring at the phone.
The question bothered me because it was too specific to be casual.
I had never told him I was transferring the house.
I had never asked him to prepare documents.
I had never given him permission to act on my behalf.
So why was he checking whether I had received paperwork?
I considered calling him back.
Instead, I wrote down the date and the question.
Then I contacted my attorney.
I told her what Cullen had asked.
She advised me to keep the original property documents secure and to let her know if anyone presented me with a transfer document or claimed that the ownership had changed.
I thanked her.
I wanted to believe the matter would end there.
I wanted to believe Cullen had simply become confused about what we had discussed.
But a few days later, another conversation made that explanation harder to accept.
Cullen called while I was sitting in the living room.
He sounded distracted.
He asked whether I had been thinking about my long-term plans for the beach house.
I told him that I had.
"And?"
"And what?"
"Have you decided what you're going to do with it?"
I looked at the framed photograph of my husband on the bookshelf.
"I'm keeping it for now."
He was silent for a moment.
"That doesn't really solve anything."
I sat up straighter.
"What exactly needs solving?"
"Mom, I'm trying to plan ahead."
"For what?"
"For the family."
I waited.
He continued talking about how useful the property would be and how much sense it made for it to remain within the family.
He spoke about future holidays.
He spoke about convenience.
He spoke about the house as though it were a resource waiting to be assigned.
He never once asked what I wanted.
When he finished, I asked him a direct question.
"Have you told anyone that the house belongs to you?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "Why would you ask me that?"
"Because you keep talking as though you've already made plans for it."
"I'm not doing anything wrong by thinking about the future."
"No. But thinking about the future isn't the same as owning my property."
He became irritated.
"You're taking everything the wrong way."
"Then explain it to me the right way."
He said he didn't have time to argue.
I told him I wasn't arguing.
I was asking a question.
He ended the call soon afterward.
I sat quietly for several minutes.
Then I called my attorney again.
She suggested that I arrange a formal review of the relevant documents and make sure my intentions were clearly established.
I agreed.
I wasn't going to wait until someone put a document in front of me and expected me to accept it.
That week, I returned to the beach house to check on a few things.
The trip gave me time to think.
I drove along the familiar road with the windows partly open.
The smell of the ocean reached me before I could see the water.
When I arrived, I unlocked the front door and walked inside.
The house was quiet.
I placed my bag on the dining table and opened the curtains.
For a while, I did nothing except look at the rooms.
I remembered my husband standing near the fireplace while we argued about where to put a painting.
I remembered Cullen sitting on the floor as a teenager, eating takeout from a paper container because he didn't want to miss a game on television.
I remembered the three of us walking along the beach after dinner.
Those memories were part of why I had kept the house.
They were not evidence that I owed it to anyone.
I went to the desk where I kept some of the household records.
I checked the folder again.
Everything was where it should be.
I locked the drawer before leaving the room.
Then I called Cullen.
He answered quickly.
"Did you find something?"
The question startled me.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. I thought you were checking the house."
"I was."
"And everything is all right?"
"Yes."
He sounded relieved.
I couldn't explain why that bothered me so much.
Maybe it was because he seemed less concerned about my well-being than about whether the property was still in the condition he expected.
Maybe I was becoming too suspicious.
I didn't know.
But I no longer felt comfortable ignoring the pattern.
I returned home the following day.
Two days later, I received a call from an unfamiliar number.
The man introduced himself as Miles.
I knew the name, but I had never spoken with him directly.
He was connected to Blythe's family, and I had seen him in a few wedding photographs.
His voice was polite.
He asked whether I had a moment to discuss the beach house.
My stomach tightened.
"What about it?"
"I understand there may be a question about the transfer."
I stood still beside the kitchen counter.
"What transfer?"
There was a pause.
"The property transfer Cullen mentioned."
I gripped the edge of the counter.
"Cullen told you the house had been transferred?"
Miles sounded surprised by my question.
"He said the arrangements had been completed."
I could hear faint background noise on his end of the call.
Someone was speaking in another room.
Miles lowered his voice.
"He showed us a document."
My mouth went dry.
"What document?"
"He described it as the deed."
I couldn't speak for a moment.
I had never signed a deed transferring the beach house to Cullen.
I had never authorized anyone to do so on my behalf.
I had never even agreed to give him the property.
"Did you see my signature?" I asked.
"I saw the document he presented."
"That wasn't my question."
Miles went quiet.
Then he admitted that he had not personally verified the signature with me.
He had accepted what Cullen told him.
I closed my eyes.
For months, I had wondered whether my son simply assumed that the house would eventually be his.
Now I was hearing something much more serious.
He had apparently told another person that the transfer was already complete.
I asked Miles to explain exactly what Cullen had said.
He repeated that Cullen had described the property as transferred and had shown him paperwork he identified as the deed.
I asked whether he had a copy.
He said he would need to check.
I told him not to alter or discard anything related to the matter.
Then I ended the call.
My hands were shaking.
I sat down at the kitchen table and tried to put the facts in order.
Cullen had asked about property paperwork.
He had spoken as if the future of the house had already been settled.
He had reacted badly when I told him I was keeping it.
Now Miles was saying that Cullen had represented the property as his.
I didn't know what the document contained.
I didn't know whether it was genuine, incomplete, or something else entirely.
I would not make accusations before I had the facts.
But I could no longer tell myself that this was merely a misunderstanding about family plans.
I called my attorney immediately.
I explained the conversation with Miles as carefully as I could.
She listened and told me to preserve any relevant communications.
She also advised me not to sign anything presented by Cullen or anyone acting on his behalf without having it reviewed independently.
I promised I wouldn't.
After the call, I took the property folder out of the drawer.
I placed it on the table beside my notebook.
I checked the documents again.
My name appeared where it should.
The records reflected the purchase my husband and I had made fourteen years earlier.
The later paperwork reflected what had happened after his death.
Nothing in the folder showed a transfer to Cullen.
I read the documents once more.
Then I closed the folder.
I was frightened.
Not because I believed the house had somehow ceased to belong to me.
Because I had begun to understand that my son might have told people something about my property that was not true.
And if he had, I needed to confront him.
I called Cullen.
He answered after several rings.
"Mom?"
"We need to talk about the beach house."
He sighed.
"What about it now?"
"Miles called me."
The silence on the line was immediate.
I could hear him breathing.
"What did he say?" Cullen asked.
"He told me you showed him a deed."
Another pause.
Then Cullen began speaking quickly.
"Mom, this is getting blown out of proportion."
"Did you tell Miles that the house had been transferred to you?"
"I told him the arrangements were being handled."
"That isn't what he said."
"You don't know what he said."
"Then tell me what you said."
He became defensive.
He said I was misunderstanding the situation.
He said there had been discussions.
He said everyone was trying to make plans.
But he still had not answered the question.
I asked him again.
"Did you tell him the house was yours?"
He went silent.
I had spent years filling those silences for him.
I would offer an explanation.
I would soften the question.
I would give him a way to avoid saying something uncomfortable.
This time, I waited.
Finally, he said he needed to speak with Blythe and would call me back.
I told him I would be waiting for an answer.
Then I ended the call.
I didn't feel triumphant.
I felt sick.
A mother should not have to investigate whether her son had represented her property as his own.
I sat at the table until the light outside began to fade.
The folder remained open in front of me.
My husband's name was printed on one of the older documents.
I touched the edge of the page.
Fourteen years earlier, we had signed those papers together.
We had bought the house because we wanted a place where our family could gather.
We had never imagined that one day I would sit alone in my kitchen, wondering whether my own son had decided he could claim it without my consent.
That night, I barely slept.
I kept thinking about Miles's words.
He had been told the transfer was finished.
He had seen a document.
Cullen had presented it as proof.
I didn't know what would happen when I confronted my son again.
But I knew I could not return to the old arrangement, where I accepted his explanations simply because challenging them made me uncomfortable.
The next conversation would have to be different.
I would ask him what he had done.
I would listen to his answer.
And I would no longer let him replace the truth with a story that suited him.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: I Had Given Cullen Every Chance to Tell Me the Truth, but When I Finally Asked About the Deed, He Tried to Make Me Feel Guilty for Asking
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 4 of 20
