The attorney called two days later.
He said my son had contacted the office.
Apparently, he wanted clarification about the notice.
I wasn't surprised.
The attorney asked whether I was willing to attend a meeting.
I agreed, provided the discussion remained focused on the legal matters.
I didn't want another argument in a living room.
I didn't want anyone raising their voice.
And I certainly didn't want to be pressured into signing anything.
The meeting was arranged for the following week.
Until then, I tried to keep my days ordinary.
I went shopping for groceries.
I bought vegetables, bread, and a small jar of honey.
I replaced a towel in the bathroom.
I organized my husband's books.
Little things.
But they made the penthouse feel more like home.
One evening, I found myself opening the drawer where I kept his handwritten note.
I read it again.
Then I placed it beside the wedding photograph.
I wished I could ask him whether I was doing the right thing.
I could almost hear his answer.
He would probably tell me to stop worrying about everyone else's feelings for five minutes.
He had said something similar many times.
The day of the meeting arrived.
I wore a simple navy dress.
I carried my purse and the folder containing the property documents.
The attorney greeted me when I arrived.
He led me into a conference room.
My son was already there.
He looked tired.
His wife was sitting beside him.
She didn't greet me.
I sat across from them.
For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
Then my son began.
"Mom, this situation has gone too far."
I looked at him.
"I agree that it should never have reached this point."
He frowned.
"That's not what I mean."
His wife leaned forward.
"We're trying to build our lives, and this is making everything difficult."
I looked at her.
"I understand that you have plans."
She crossed her arms.
"Then why can't we resolve this?"
The attorney interrupted politely.
"We're here to discuss the documents and the legal position. Let's stay with those matters."
He placed the notice on the table.
Then he explained its purpose.
I listened.
My son asked several questions.
Some were about the property.
Others concerned the documents he and his wife had prepared.
The attorney answered carefully.
At one point, my son turned toward me.
"Why didn't you just sign what we gave you?"
I looked at him.
"Because I didn't understand it."
He rubbed his forehead.
"You could have trusted me."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"Your wife told me to leave the house five days after your father died. Then I found documents asking me to transfer property while I was still grieving. What exactly was I supposed to trust?"
He looked away.
His wife immediately responded.
"We were trying to organize things."
I turned toward her.
"You had already decided where I would live."
She said I was being unfair.
I didn't respond.
The attorney returned the conversation to the paperwork.
He explained that the proposed transfer needed to be evaluated and that my rights could not simply be disregarded.
I watched my son's expression.
He looked increasingly uncomfortable.
When the meeting ended, he asked whether he could speak to me alone.
I hesitated.
The attorney suggested that we could have a brief conversation, provided no legal decisions were made.
I agreed.
His wife left first.
My son remained seated.
He looked at his hands.
"Mom, I didn't think things would turn out like this."
I waited.
He said his wife believed the house should eventually become theirs.
He said they had discussed renovations.
He said they had assumed I would prefer somewhere smaller.
I listened.
Then I asked him one question.
"Did you ever ask me what I wanted?"
He didn't answer.
I leaned back.
"Did you ask whether I was ready to leave?"
He shook his head.
I asked whether he had considered how I would pay for somewhere else to live.
He looked surprised.
"Mom, we didn't think you would have trouble."
I stared at him.
That answer told me more than he intended.
He had assumed I would manage somehow.
He had assumed I would accept whatever decision they made.
He had assumed that because I had always helped him, I would continue doing so even when he was hurting me.
I didn't tell him about the inheritance.
I didn't mention the penthouse.
I didn't explain the twenty-eight million dollars.
Those matters were private.
And I wasn't ready to share them.
Instead, I said something simple.
"I wanted my son to care whether I was safe."
He lowered his head.
For a moment, I thought he might apologize.
But he didn't.
He asked whether the legal notice could be withdrawn.
I looked at him.
"That is something you need to discuss with the attorney."
His shoulders dropped.
I stood.
The meeting was over.
Outside the building, I felt tired.
Not defeated.
Just tired.
I returned to the penthouse and removed my shoes.
Then I made tea.
The conversation had not repaired anything.
But it had confirmed that I was right to seek independent advice.
I couldn't build a new relationship with my son by pretending the old wounds didn't exist.
And I couldn't protect myself by signing documents simply because he wanted me to.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: A Small Detail in My Husband’s Old Notebook Led the Attorney to Ask Me About Something I Had Never Thought Important
Five Days After My Husband’s Funeral, My Son’s Wife Told Me to Leave the Only Home I Had Ever Known
Part 10 of 20
