A few days later, Megan contacted me again.
This time, she sent a message rather than calling.
She asked whether I was available to talk.
I read it while sitting at the kitchen table.
I didn't answer immediately.
I had no desire to argue.
But I also didn't want every conversation between us to become another discussion about the villa.
Eventually, I replied that she could call.
She called that afternoon.
Her voice sounded different.
Less certain.
More careful.
She told me Ray and Donna were still trying to arrange their living situation.
She said they were upset about the move-in.
I listened.
Then she said they felt Derek had promised them something he couldn't deliver.
I looked toward the window.
"That is between you and Derek."
She paused.
Then she said she understood.
I didn't know whether she truly did.
She told me she had spoken to her parents about the trust.
They had difficulty understanding why Derek believed the property was his.
I explained that I couldn't answer that for him.
I told her the deed he had shown them was never recorded.
I told her the trust had been established years earlier.
She said she had not known.
I believed she might be telling the truth.
But that didn't change the way she had treated me.
I reminded her that she had sat in my kitchen and told me my name had been removed from the property.
She said she was sorry.
It was the first time I had heard those words from her.
I didn't rush to accept them.
I simply said I appreciated her saying it.
Then she brought up the move-in again.
She said her parents had already lost their rental arrangement.
I told her I understood the difficulty.
But I couldn't provide them with the villa.
She asked whether I had considered how much they needed it.
I looked at the old glass vase on the table.
The flowers were beginning to open.
"Megan, I spent twenty years making that house a home. I am not going to give it away because someone else needs somewhere to stay."
She became quiet.
Then she said Derek was under a lot of pressure.
I asked whether she knew about the loan application.
She said she knew there had been some financial paperwork.
I didn't ask for more details.
That was something my attorney needed to handle.
She asked whether I was angry with Derek.
I answered honestly.
"Yes."
She asked whether I hated him.
I said no.
I loved my son.
That hadn't changed.
But love did not mean I had to agree with everything he did.
Megan didn't respond.
After a few moments, she said she hoped things would improve.
I told her I hoped so too.
We ended the call politely.
I sat at the table for a long time.
I thought about how quickly the two families had become divided.
Ray and Donna had believed they were receiving a new home.
Derek had believed he could offer it.
Megan had believed the photocopy proved everything.
And I had been expected to disappear quietly.
I didn't know what conversations had taken place between them.
I only knew what I had witnessed.
The measuring tape.
The paint cans.
The beer on Arthur's swing.
The boxes in my driveway.
I had seen enough.
That evening, I walked through the house.
I opened the bedroom curtains.
The coral walls looked warm in the fading light.
I ran my hand along the window frame.
Then I went to the garage and checked the old paint cans.
They were still there.
I smiled.
I had no immediate plans to repaint anything.
I liked the house the way it was.
Later, my phone rang again.
Derek.
I answered.
He asked whether Megan had spoken to me.
I said she had.
He wanted to know what we discussed.
I told him we talked about the move-in and the family situation.
He asked whether I had agreed to help her parents.
I said no.
He sighed.
"Mom, they're in a difficult position."
"So am I."
He didn't answer.
I reminded him that I had not created the situation.
He said he had been trying to help.
I told him that helping one family member should not require taking something from another.
He became quiet.
Then he said he wished I would stop treating him like an enemy.
I looked at the kitchen table.
I remembered the little boy who used to sit there doing homework.
I remembered the young man who had brought me flowers.
"I don't think you're my enemy, Derek."
"Then why are you doing this?"
I took a breath.
"Because I am your mother, not your property manager. And this is my home."
He didn't say anything.
We ended the call soon afterward.
I stayed by the kitchen window.
I was sad.
But I was also beginning to accept that I couldn't make Derek understand something he wasn't ready to face.
Click here to continue reading: PART 19: The White-Oak Swing Reminded Me of Arthur, and I Finally Understood Why Protecting Our Home Had Always Mattered So Much
The Afternoon My Son Told Me I Had Lost the Right to Enter the House I Had Spent Twenty Years Building
Part 18 of 24
