The next appointment was scheduled for Monday.
I arrived with the folder containing the original property documents.
The attorney greeted me and invited me to sit.
He had reviewed additional records relating to the White Plains property.
He explained that he wanted to make sure every detail was clear before any further action was taken.
I placed my folder on the desk.
"Is something wrong?"
He shook his head.
"Not necessarily. But there are details we need to examine."
I listened.
He explained that the proposed transfer documents my son and daughter-in-law had prepared needed to be compared with the relevant property records.
He asked whether I had any other paperwork from the house.
I remembered the old notebook.
He already had it.
I also remembered a folder my husband used to keep in his desk.
I had not collected it when I left.
I told the attorney.
He suggested that I retrieve it only if it could be done without confrontation.
I agreed.
We discussed the appropriate way to request access to the remaining documents.
I didn't want to walk into the house unexpectedly.
I had no interest in another argument.
That afternoon, I sent my son a message.
I needed to collect some personal papers from the desk in the study. Please let me know when I can come by.
He replied later.
Saturday morning.
I thanked him.
Then I returned to the attorney's questions.
He explained that my husband's estate arrangements and the White Plains property needed to be treated as separate matters.
I appreciated the distinction.
I didn't want to assume that the twenty-eight million dollars automatically answered every question about the house.
I wanted the records to speak for themselves.
On Saturday, I returned to Maple Avenue.
My son opened the door.
He looked uncomfortable.
"Come in."
I entered.
The living room had changed again.
The curtains were different.
The old wooden cabinet was still against the wall.
But my wedding photograph was gone.
I looked at the empty space above the fireplace.
I didn't ask where it was.
I had taken my copy with me.
My daughter-in-law appeared in the hallway.
She looked at my purse.
"You're here for more things?"
"I'm collecting some personal documents."
She stepped aside.
I walked toward the study.
My husband's desk was still there.
I remembered how he used to sit at it every evening.
Sometimes he read newspapers.
Sometimes he wrote notes.
Sometimes he simply sat quietly with his glasses on.
I opened the top drawer.
There were old envelopes and pens.
The second drawer contained notebooks.
I searched carefully.
Finally, I found a brown folder.
My name was written on the front.
I took it out.
My son appeared in the doorway.
"What's that?"
"Some papers your father kept."
He looked at the folder.
"Are they important?"
"I don't know yet."
He frowned.
"Why don't you just tell me what you're looking for?"
I looked at him.
"Because I am collecting my own documents."
He stepped back.
I placed the folder inside my purse.
Then I noticed a small photograph underneath the desk blotter.
It was a picture of my husband and me standing in front of the White Plains house on the day we moved in.
The house looked new.
There were no trees in the front yard yet.
My husband was holding a cardboard box.
I was laughing.
I picked up the photograph.
My son watched me.
"Do you want that?"
I looked at him.
"Yes."
He nodded.
I placed it inside my purse.
Then I left.
I didn't stay for coffee.
I didn't ask about dinner.
I had learned that visiting the house was no longer the same as coming home.
When I returned to Manhattan, I called the attorney.
He arranged to review the brown folder at our next appointment.
I placed it on the table.
For several minutes, I simply looked at my name.
My husband had written it.
The same handwriting appeared on the letter beside my bed.
I opened the folder slightly.
There were several papers inside.
I didn't read them all.
I wanted the attorney to examine them first.
That evening, I sat with the photograph of the house.
I remembered the day we moved in.
My husband had insisted on carrying the heaviest box.
I had told him he would hurt his back.
He had laughed.
"We'll manage."
We had managed.
For forty years, we had managed.
Now I was beginning to understand why he had wanted everything documented.
He knew that memories alone would not protect me.
And I was grateful he had thought ahead.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: The Papers My Husband Kept in His Desk Explained Why He Had Left Me Instructions, and I Finally Stopped Feeling Guilty for Protecting Myself
Five Days After My Husband’s Funeral, My Son’s Wife Told Me to Leave the Only Home I Had Ever Known
Part 15 of 20
