My appointment was scheduled for the following morning.
I arrived ten minutes early and sat in the waiting area with the folder on my lap.
A television mounted in the corner played a morning program with the sound turned low.
The receptionist offered me coffee.
I accepted it, although I had already had two cups at home.
The paper cup warmed my hands.
I watched the clock move from one minute to the next.
I had expected to feel nervous.
Instead, I felt tired.
Not sleepy.
Tired of having to prove that a decision still belonged to me.
When the attorney came out to greet me, I stood and followed her into the office.
She had a broad desk, two chairs for visitors, and a row of binders arranged by year.
I had met with her before when I needed help reviewing the property records.
She had been direct without making me feel foolish.
That was one reason I trusted her.
She placed my folder on the desk.
“Let's start with what has changed since our last conversation.”
I explained the calls with Cullen, Miles, and Blythe.
I told her that Cullen had said he expected me to agree to the transfer eventually.
I also told her that he had described the property as already transferred when speaking to Miles.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she opened the folder and looked at the deed.
Then she asked one question.
“Have you signed any document transferring ownership of this property to your son?”
“No.”
“Have you authorized anyone to sign such a document on your behalf?”
“No.”
“Have you given him a power of attorney that would allow him to handle the property for you?”
“No.”
She nodded and made a note.
“Then we should separate the legal question from the family disagreement.”
I leaned forward.
“What do you mean?”
“The legal question is whether ownership has been transferred. The family disagreement is what your son believes should happen, what he has told other people, and whether he has represented those beliefs as facts.”
I looked down at the deed.
“I think he has confused those things.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But we should not assume that confusion explains everything. We should establish exactly what document he showed Miles.”
That was the part I had been trying to get to.
I told her Cullen had promised to deal with it but had not sent anything.
“Do you know whether Miles still has a copy?”
“He said he would provide whatever he had.”
“Have you contacted him again?”
“Not since our last conversation.”
She suggested that I send Miles a brief written request for the document, without arguing about what it meant.
She also recommended that I keep every message connected to the property.
I nodded.
Then I asked the question that had been troubling me since the first call.
“If Cullen has a document, could it change who owns the house?”
“That depends on what the document is and how it was created. But we cannot answer that by guessing. We need to see it.”
She turned the deed toward me and pointed to the section identifying the owner.
“Based on the records we have reviewed, you remain the sole legal owner. Nothing you've shown me establishes a transfer to Cullen.”
I let out a breath I had not realized I was holding.
I had known that was what the papers said.
Still, hearing it stated plainly made a difference.
I had spent days imagining that there might be some document I had signed without understanding, some meeting I had forgotten, or some form that had been presented as a routine matter.
The attorney's answer did not resolve every question.
It did give me something firm to stand on.
She explained that if Cullen had shown Miles an incomplete draft, a proposal, or some other paper, it would not automatically mean ownership had changed.
The actual document mattered.
So did any signatures, required formalities, and the applicable property records.
She did not tell me that Cullen had committed a crime.
She did not make a judgment about his motives.
She told me what we could establish and what we still needed to find out.
I appreciated that.
I had enough people making assumptions.
Before I left, she gave me a list of the records she wanted me to gather.
I already had most of them.
She asked for copies of the current deed, the most recent tax statement, the insurance policy, and any correspondence about a possible transfer.
I told her there had been no formal correspondence that I knew of.
“Then write that down,” she said. “If you remember a conversation later, record it separately and date it.”
I made a note.
She also advised me not to sign anything related to the property unless I understood it and had the opportunity to review it independently.
I told her I had no intention of signing anything at the moment.
“That is your choice,” she said. “You do not need to make a decision about the future of the house today.”
I folded the list and placed it in my folder.
As I stood to leave, I asked whether I should confront Cullen again.
“Only if you have a clear purpose for the conversation,” she said. “You have already asked him for the document. I would give him a reasonable opportunity to provide it before doing anything else.”
I thanked her.
Outside, the morning had grown warmer.
I sat in my car and placed the folder on the passenger seat.
For a few minutes, I did not start the engine.
I thought about the difference between a wish and a fact.
Cullen might wish to own the house someday.
He might believe that I would eventually give it to him.
He might have built his plans around that belief.
None of those things meant he owned it now.
I started the car and drove to a nearby café.
I ordered a sandwich and another coffee, then took a small table near the window.
I had intended to call Miles.
Instead, I sent him a message.
Thank you for speaking with me earlier. My attorney has asked me to obtain a copy of the document Cullen showed you regarding the beach house. Please send me a copy if you still have it. I want to establish exactly what it is.*
I read it twice before sending.
There was no accusation in it.
There was no threat.
It was a simple request.
Miles replied while I was eating.
*Miles:** I understand. I'll look through my files and send what I have.
I thanked him.
Then I put the phone away.
I was halfway through my sandwich when Cullen called.
I considered letting it go to voicemail.
But I had asked him for information, and he was calling me.
I answered.
“Hello.”
“Did you go to the attorney?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled sharply.
“You didn't have to do that.”
“I did have to clarify the ownership of my own property.”
“Mom, you're acting like I stole the house.”
“I have not said that.”
“You're treating me like you did.”
“I am asking you to provide a document you say you showed Miles.”
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “It wasn't what you think it was.”
“That is why I want to see it.”
“It was just part of the planning.”
“What planning?”
“The house. The future. All of it.”
I looked out the window.
A man was walking past with a paper bag tucked under one arm.
“Cullen, did you tell Miles that the property had already been transferred?”
“I told him things were being handled.”
“That isn't what he understood.”
“Well, then he misunderstood.”
“Did you correct him?”
Cullen did not answer immediately.
I waited.
Finally, he said, “I didn't think it was necessary to get into every detail.”
I closed my eyes.
“You told someone I had transferred a house worth nearly two million dollars. You thought the details were unnecessary?”
“I knew you would eventually agree.”
“That is not an answer.”
He made a frustrated sound.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
I could have said that I was not doing anything to him.
I could have explained again that the deed was mine and the choice was mine.
I could have tried to make him understand how frightening it was to hear that my own son had represented a transfer as complete when I had never agreed to it.
Instead, I gave him the only answer that mattered.
“Because I need to know what you told people about my property.”
He was quiet.
Then his voice softened.
“Mom, I never wanted this to become a fight.”
“Neither did I.”
“Then let's stop.”
“I am willing to stop arguing. I am not willing to ignore the question.”
He said nothing.
“Send me the document, Cullen.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
“That is what you said yesterday.”
“I have things going on.”
“So do I.”
He seemed surprised by that.
I rarely told him when I was busy.
I usually adjusted my schedule to make room for him.
That habit had made my time seem endlessly available.
“I'll call you later,” he said.
“All right.”
He hung up without saying goodbye.
I finished my lunch and drove home.
The conversation had not produced the document.
But it had clarified something else.
Cullen still seemed to believe that the central problem was my refusal to accept his expectations.
He did not seem to understand that I was asking about a statement he had already made.
We were arguing about two different things.
He wanted to discuss what he believed should happen.
I needed to know what he had told other people had already happened.
Until those questions were separated, every conversation would circle back to the same place.
At home, I placed the attorney's list on top of the folder.
I made copies of the documents she had requested.
Then I wrote a short timeline, starting with the first time Cullen had asked about the house and ending with the call I had just received.
I did not add conclusions.
I wrote down the words I remembered.
When I reached the end, I noticed that nearly every entry involved someone else telling me what Cullen had said.
Cullen himself had still not provided the paper.
I put the timeline in the folder.
Then I called my sister and asked whether she could talk for a few minutes.
She listened while I explained the situation.
She did not tell me to forgive him.
She did not tell me to cut him off.
She asked what I wanted to happen next.
“I want him to tell the truth about the house,” I said.
“And after that?”
I looked at the folder.
“After that, I'll decide what I want to do with it.”
She said that sounded reasonable.
It was such a simple response that I almost laughed.
For days, I had been treating the situation as though I had to choose between being a mother and protecting my own rights.
My sister had reminded me that those were not opposite choices.
I could love Cullen and still expect him to be honest.
I could care about his future without giving him control over mine.
That evening, I placed the folder in the desk drawer and locked it.
I had never needed to lock it before.
I did not like the feeling.
But I liked even less the idea of leaving important documents where someone could take them without asking.
I turned off the desk lamp.
The house was quiet.
For once, I let it remain quiet.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: I Kept Waiting for My Son to Send the Document, Until Someone Else Finally Admitted What He Had Been Promising
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 10 of 20
