The next morning, I placed the cream-colored envelope on my kitchen table.
I had slept badly, waking whenever the house creaked.
The image of Cullen standing beside his suitcases kept returning to me.
So did the faces of the guests who had come expecting to watch me hand over my keys.
I was tired of trying to understand everything through what other people claimed I had said.
I wanted the facts in front of me.
After breakfast, I called my attorney and asked for an appointment.
He offered me a time that afternoon.
I put the envelope inside my handbag and drove to his office.
The sky was gray, and the coastal wind pushed against my car as I crossed town.
I kept both hands on the steering wheel.
I had spent too many days reacting to decisions other people had already made.
I wanted to stop doing that.
When I arrived, my attorney cleared a space on his desk.
I placed the envelope between us.
He examined the tape along its edge without touching it at first.
“Is this the same envelope you told me about?”
“Yes.”
“And you still don't know who opened it?”
“No.”
He nodded and asked me to explain exactly what I remembered.
I told him about finding it hidden away, the tape, and the document inside.
I told him what Cullen had shouted in front of the guests.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he opened the envelope carefully and reviewed the pages.
“This document was prepared for discussion,” he said. “That is not the same thing as completing a transfer.”
“I understand that now.”
“I want you to understand it clearly, because other people may be using those words as though they mean the same thing.”
He turned the document toward me.
We went through the pages together.
He explained which parts reflected my intentions at the time and which steps would have been necessary for any actual property transfer.
He also explained that the precise legal position depended on the document's wording and the applicable property requirements.
I listened closely.
I did not want to mistake his explanation for a promise about an outcome he had not yet verified.
“Have you found anything showing that I completed a transfer?” I asked.
“Nothing in what you've brought me establishes that you knowingly completed one.”
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
He reminded me that we needed to keep the original document safe and establish whether anyone had handled it without permission.
I told him I had never knowingly authorized anyone to take ownership of the house.
He wrote that down.
Then he asked me what I wanted to happen.
For a moment, I had no answer.
I wanted my son to understand what he had done.
I wanted the house to remain mine while I decided what came next.
And I wanted to stop feeling as though loving Cullen meant surrendering every boundary I had.
“I don't want to make a decision just because everyone expects me to,” I finally said.
“Then don't,” he replied.
Those two words felt almost strange.
I had spent weeks behaving as though I owed everyone an immediate answer.
My attorney suggested that we keep our communications clear and preserve any messages concerning the house.
I showed him Cullen's texts and the invitation to the welcome-home gathering.
He reviewed them and returned my phone.
“Keep copies,” he said. “Don't assume that an apology, an invitation, or a family conversation settles the legal question.”
I promised I would.
Before I left, I asked about the envelope again.
He said he could help establish the status of the document, but the tape alone did not identify who had opened it.
That answer disappointed me.
I wanted a name.
I wanted to know who had touched my private papers and why.
But wanting an answer did not mean I had one.
I drove back to the beach house instead of going straight home.
The blue door looked exactly as it had when Nile painted it.
The paint had faded a little around the handle, and one section of the porch railing needed attention.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The rooms were quiet.
I checked the mantel first.
Nile's photograph stood where I had returned it.
I straightened the frame and wiped a small patch of dust from the wood.
Then I walked through the master bedroom.
Blythe's white robe was no longer hanging there.
My own robe was back where I kept it.
Those small details still bothered me more than I expected.
They reminded me that someone had entered my home with plans for my life already made.
I returned to the kitchen and sat at the table.
I thought about Cullen as a little boy, carrying a bucket of sand across the porch because he wanted to help his father repair a crack.
He had been proud of the smallest jobs.
Nile always thanked him.
I wondered when Cullen had begun to believe that being my only son meant he could make decisions for me.
I could not answer that question.
I could only decide what I would allow now.
I took a notebook from the drawer and wrote three sentences.
The house was mine to decide about.
No one had permission to move in.
Any future arrangement had to be discussed openly.
I read the words twice.
They were simple, but I needed to see them in my own handwriting.
Then I closed the notebook.
I wasn't ready to decide whether Cullen would ever receive the house.
I was ready to stop letting other people decide for me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 22: Cullen Returned to the House Without an Audience, and We Finally Discussed What His Wedding Had Cost Between Us
The Sunday Morning Call That Made Me Question Everything I Thought I Knew About My Only Son
Part 21 of 24
