On Friday morning, I received a message from Blythe.
It was a photograph of her and Cullen standing beside a swimming pool in Hawaii.
They were smiling.
Blythe was wearing sunglasses.
Cullen had one arm around her.
Underneath the photograph, she had written:
"We really need this time together without unnecessary stress."
I looked at the picture.
Then I put my phone down.
I didn't want to argue with someone enjoying a honeymoon.
I also didn't want to pretend everything was fine.
A little later, Laurelai called.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
But I answered.
"Eleanor."
She didn't bother with a greeting.
"I understand you've been speaking to Miles."
"Yes."
"He says you've been telling him the house hasn't been transferred."
I sat down.
"Because it hasn't."
She sighed.
"You're making a very simple situation unnecessarily complicated."
I looked at the kitchen clock.
It was almost eleven.
I had planned to make lunch.
Instead, I was once again discussing a property I had spent years rebuilding.
"Laurelai, what exactly do you believe has been transferred?"
She answered immediately.
"The beach house."
"By whom?"
"By you, of course."
I almost smiled.
"Have you seen a signed deed?"
She paused.
"Cullen told us everything was completed."
"That wasn't my question."
Her voice became sharper.
"Why are you interrogating me?"
"Because you are hosting a celebration at my property."
"We're doing this for the children."
I leaned back.
"Then perhaps you should have asked the mother of the groom whether she agreed."
There was a short silence.
Laurelai gave a frustrated breath.
"That is precisely the problem. You keep making this about yourself."
I stared at the phone.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
My home.
My late husband's memory.
My property.
And somehow, I was the selfish one.
I answered slowly.
"It is about me because it is my house."
Laurelai didn't respond.
I continued.
"You can love your daughter. You can help her. You can plan celebrations. But you cannot promise her something that belongs to another person."
She became quiet.
Then she said:
"Cullen has always told us this was his future home."
"Then Cullen should have asked me."
"You're his mother."
"Exactly."
I heard her move the phone.
Then her voice changed.
"Listen, Eleanor. Blythe has already told everyone she is moving. She has given up her apartment. Her friends know about the house. The celebration is planned."
I looked at the invitation on the table.
Thirty-four guests.
A welcome-home party.
Hosted by Laurelai and Miles.
I thought about how much easier this would have been if someone had simply asked me.
But nobody had.
I asked her one question.
"Have you ever considered that your daughter may have been told something that isn't true?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Then she said:
"I don't think you understand what this means to her."
I felt tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
I had spent days trying to explain something that should never have needed explaining.
"I understand perfectly well."
"Then please don't ruin her happiness."
I closed my eyes.
I wanted to ask whether my happiness mattered.
I wanted to ask whether my feelings mattered.
But I already knew the answer.
At least, I knew what their actions had told me.
I ended the call politely.
Then I sat alone for several minutes.
Afterward, I opened my phone and checked the wedding photographs again.
I wanted to see whether the comment about my health had received any more replies.
It had.
Someone had written that they hoped I was recovering.
Another person had asked whether I would be able to attend the welcome-home celebration.
Cullen had not answered that question.
I stared at the screen.
The story was spreading.
People were beginning to believe that I was either too sick to attend the wedding or unwilling to accept the marriage.
Neither was true.
I had simply been excluded.
And now I was being portrayed as an obstacle to a happy beginning.
I put the phone down.
I didn't want to defend myself on social media.
I didn't want to start an argument beneath wedding photographs.
I wanted the truth to speak for itself.
That afternoon, Richard called.
He had reviewed the paperwork again.
He confirmed that the document in the cream-colored envelope was not a completed deed.
He also reminded me that the property records showed me as the sole owner.
I asked him whether there was anything else I needed to do.
He advised me to keep the original documents secure and avoid signing anything without reviewing it with him.
I thanked him.
Then I asked about the handwritten note from Nile.
Richard knew about it.
He had heard me mention it when we discussed the document earlier in the year.
"Have you decided what you want to do with that note?" he asked.
I looked toward the drawer.
"Not yet."
"That's fine. Take your time."
After the call, I removed the note from its wooden box.
I unfolded it.
Nile had written slowly.
His handwriting became smaller toward the bottom.
There was a sentence I had remembered for years.
It was about Cullen.
About giving him a chance to become a responsible man.
Nile believed our son should understand that love was not measured by what someone received.
It was measured by what someone did with what they were given.
I read that sentence twice.
Then I folded the note again.
I wondered whether Cullen would understand it.
I wondered whether he would even want to read it.
For a long time, I had imagined giving him the document and note together.
I had imagined him sitting beside me on the porch.
I had imagined telling him what his father wanted.
I had imagined a happy conversation.
That picture was becoming harder to hold.
Later that evening, Margaret stopped by.
She noticed the papers on my table.
"Are those the documents?"
"Yes."
She looked at the cream-colored envelope.
"Have you found out what happened?"
"Not completely."
I told her Richard had confirmed the house was still mine.
Margaret looked relieved.
"Good."
Then she asked:
"Are you still going to let them have the party?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
She studied my face.
"Are you sure?"
I looked at the invitation.
"I didn't organize it. I didn't invite anyone. I didn't promise anyone a house. But I won't hide from the people who were told something different."
Margaret nodded slowly.
I think she understood.
We sat together for a while.
We talked about the neighborhood.
About the weather.
About how the beach looked different after a storm.
Then she left.
Before going to bed, I placed the invitation in the drawer.
I put Nile's note beside it.
The two papers seemed strangely connected.
One represented what other people expected from me.
The other represented what my husband had hoped I would give our son.
I turned off the kitchen light.
And I decided I would not allow anyone to rush me into a decision simply because they had already invited guests.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: I Decided to Let Thirty-Four Guests Come to My Beach House, but I Was No Longer Planning to Give Anyone the Keys
My Only Son Called to Announce His Wedding, but One Casual Sentence Made Me Realize I Was No Longer Welcome in His Life
Part 7 of 20
