The next few days passed slowly.
I kept expecting Cullen to call.
He didn't.
I kept checking my phone, although I had told myself I wouldn't.
That annoyed me more than anything else.
I was still waiting for him to behave like the son I remembered.
I was still hoping he would recognize what he had done without needing me to explain it again.
But hope could not replace evidence.
I had learned that much.
On the fourth morning, my attorney contacted me.
She wanted to arrange a time to review the available property records and any documents that might be connected to the alleged transfer.
I agreed.
Before the appointment, I gathered the folder and my notebook.
I checked that I had the original purchase papers and the records showing how the ownership had been handled after my husband's death.
I also brought my notes from the conversations with Cullen and Miles.
I didn't want to rely on memory alone.
The attorney's office was quiet when I arrived.
She led me into the same meeting room where we had first reviewed the property documents.
I placed the folder on the table.
She opened it and began checking the records.
We went through the ownership information carefully.
She confirmed that the documents I had brought did not show a completed transfer to Cullen.
She explained that the next step was to compare those records with any document Cullen had presented to other people.
I asked whether she had received anything from Miles.
She said she had been informed that material might be made available, but she did not want to draw conclusions before reviewing the actual documents.
I appreciated that.
I was tired of people telling me what they thought had happened.
I wanted to know what had happened.
We discussed my wishes concerning the property.
I told her I wanted to keep the house.
At least for now.
I wanted to continue using it.
I wanted to preserve the memories connected to my husband.
And I wanted to make sure no one could mistake my affection for my son as permission to decide what happened to the property.
The attorney explained that we could review the appropriate estate documents and make sure my intentions were clearly recorded.
I asked her to help me do that.
Not because I wanted to punish Cullen.
Because I wanted to remove any uncertainty about my wishes.
I had spent too much of my life hoping people would understand what I meant.
Now I wanted my intentions documented properly.
Before I left, I asked one final question.
"What should I do if Cullen tells people again that the house belongs to him?"
She advised me to preserve any relevant statements or documents and to let her know.
She also reminded me not to sign anything without reviewing it carefully.
I thanked her.
On the drive home, I thought about the phrase Cullen had used during our conversation.
I thought you'd eventually agree.
He had said it so casually.
As though my consent were merely the final step in a process he had already begun.
That was what troubled me most.
He had not waited for my answer.
He had acted on the answer he expected me to give.
And because he expected it, he had spoken to other people as though it were already settled.
I wondered whether he had done the same thing in other areas of our relationship.
Had he treated my offers of help as permanent commitments?
Had he interpreted my silence as approval?
Had he assumed that I would always make room for his plans, no matter what they required of me?
I couldn't know.
But I could recognize the pattern.
I had spent years making things easier for him.
Perhaps he had come to believe that the world would work the same way.
If he wanted something badly enough, someone would eventually provide it.
If a conversation became uncomfortable, he could wait until I softened.
If I said no, he could treat it as the beginning of a negotiation.
I had allowed some of those habits to continue because I wanted our relationship to remain close.
Now I understood the cost.
That afternoon, I received a message from Cullen.
He asked whether I had spoken to Miles.
I looked at the screen for a long moment.
Then I replied that I had.
His next message came quickly.
What did he tell you?
I answered honestly.
He told me what you had said about the property.
Cullen began typing.
I watched the small indicator appear and disappear.
Finally, his reply arrived.
You shouldn't be discussing our family business with him.
I felt a cold anger rise inside me.
Our family business.
That was how he described a matter concerning my home.
He had discussed the property with Miles.
He had shown him paperwork.
He had told him the transfer was complete.
But when I spoke directly to the person who had been given that information, I was somehow crossing a line.
I placed the phone on the table.
I didn't respond immediately.
I wanted to answer in a way that was clear and calm.
After a few minutes, I picked it up again.
I told him that I had every right to clarify statements made about my property.
I also told him that I wanted a copy of the document he had shown Miles.
His response was brief.
I'll deal with it.
I read the message.
Then I put the phone away.
I had heard enough vague assurances.
The document needed to be reviewed.
The ownership needed to be clear.
My wishes needed to be respected.
Nothing else could take the place of those things.
That evening, I went through a box of old photographs.
I hadn't planned to.
I was looking for a picture of my husband that I wanted to place in the beach house.
Instead, I found photographs from Cullen's childhood.
There he was at a school event, wearing a shirt that was too large for him.
There he was holding a birthday cake with both hands.
There he was standing beside his father in front of the beach house, his face bright with excitement.
I sat on the floor and looked at them one by one.
I remembered the sound of Cullen running down the hallway.
I remembered how he used to call out for me when he couldn't find something.
I remembered his small hand reaching for mine whenever we crossed a busy road.
I didn't regret loving him.
I would never regret that.
But I regretted the times I had confused love with the need to keep him pleased.
I regretted the times I had swallowed my disappointment because I was afraid of losing him.
I regretted allowing my fear to make decisions that should have been based on what was fair.
I gathered the photographs and returned them to the box.
Then I found the picture I had been looking for.
My husband stood on the terrace of the beach house, one hand resting on the railing.
He was smiling at something outside the frame.
I could almost hear him telling me to stop worrying about things I could not control.
I placed the photograph in my bag.
The next morning, I drove to the beach house.
I wanted to spend a few days there.
I wanted to remember what the property meant to me before other people's expectations turned it into something I dreaded.
When I arrived, I opened the windows and let the sea air into the rooms.
I put my bag in the upstairs bedroom.
Then I walked through the house slowly.
The blue cushions were still on the terrace chairs.
My husband's fishing hat remained on the shelf near the door.
The small crack in the hallway mirror was still there.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the frame.
For years, I had thought about repairing it.
Now I smiled.
Some things didn't need to be changed simply because they weren't perfect.
I made lunch and carried it outside.
The water was calm.
I could hear a distant boat engine and the soft movement of the waves.
I sat in the chair where my husband used to drink his coffee.
For a while, I let myself remember him without thinking about Cullen.
That was harder than I expected.
My son had become the center of every thought.
What had he said?
What did he believe?
What would he do next?
I was so busy trying to understand his behavior that I had almost forgotten my own life was still happening.
The beach house had existed long before Cullen began making plans for it.
It would remain meaningful even if he never understood why I wanted to keep it.
I didn't need his approval to enjoy it.
I didn't need to give it away to prove that I loved him.
And I didn't need to turn my grief into a legal dispute in order to justify protecting what was mine.
I simply needed to make my decisions clearly.
That evening, I sat at the dining table with my notebook.
I wrote down the things I knew.
I owned the house.
I had not transferred it.
Cullen had told Miles that the transfer was complete.
Cullen had admitted that he expected me to agree eventually.
I had asked for the document.
He had not provided it.
Those were the facts.
I left out what I suspected.
I left out what I feared.
I left out the explanations I had imagined in the middle of the night.
I wanted to remain fair, even when fairness was difficult.
After writing the list, I closed the notebook.
I looked around the dining room.
The house was quiet.
The light above the table cast a warm circle across the wood.
I could remember my husband sitting there with a newspaper folded beside his plate.
I could remember Cullen asking for another serving of dinner.
I could remember laughing.
Those memories belonged to me.
They didn't disappear because the people in them had changed.
I went upstairs and placed my husband's photograph on the dresser.
Then I turned off the light.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of waves and sunlight slipping around the curtains.
For the first time in weeks, I didn't reach for my phone immediately.
I made coffee.
I opened the terrace door.
I stood outside and watched the water.
I knew there were still questions to answer.
I knew the document Miles had described needed to be reviewed.
I knew Cullen might become angrier when he realized I wasn't going to accept his version of events.
But I also knew something I hadn't understood before.
My silence had made it easy for him to believe that my eventual agreement was inevitable.
My patience had allowed him to postpone the conversation he should have had with me from the beginning.
And my fear of losing him had made me reluctant to challenge him when he crossed a line.
I couldn't change the past.
I could stop repeating it.
I finished my coffee and went back inside.
The folder was on the table.
I opened it and checked the documents once more.
Then I called my attorney and confirmed our next appointment.
I was ready to take the next step.
Not to hurt Cullen.
Not to embarrass him.
Not to win.
To make sure that the truth about my property was established and that my decisions could no longer be replaced by someone else's expectations.
That was what I needed now.
And I was finally prepared to insist on it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Paperwork Was Still in My Hands, but My Son Had Already Told Someone Else the House Was His
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 8 of 20
