Chapter 12 - Where Is My Inheritance?
Patrick arrived in Fairhaven four days later.
Unannounced.
I had just returned from a morning walk when the receptionist at the Harbor View Inn approached me.
"Mrs. Whitmore? There's a gentleman waiting in the lounge."
"Did he give a name?"
"Patrick."
My stomach tightened.
For a moment, I considered leaving through the garden entrance.
Then I reminded myself that being independent didn't require hiding.
I entered the lounge.
Patrick stood near the fireplace wearing jeans, a dark shirt, and an expression that suggested he'd spent the entire drive rehearsing an argument.
"Mom."
"Patrick."
He approached, apparently expecting a hug.
I gave him one.
He was my son.
That hadn't changed.
But when he stepped back, I waited for him to speak.
"Nice place," he said.
"Thank you."
"Must be expensive."
There it was.
Five words into our reunion, and we were already discussing my money.
"Would you like coffee?"
"No. I want answers."
We sat beside a window overlooking the harbor.
Patrick leaned forward.
"How much did you get for the house?"
I blinked.
"Is that really your first question?"
"Mom, please."
"The sale price is my financial business."
His face reddened.
"So you're just going to keep everything secret now?"
"Not everything. But yes, some things."
He stared at me.
I wondered whether anyone had ever said that to him before.
Finally, he lowered his voice.
"That house was supposed to be my inheritance."
The sentence settled between us.
There it was.
The truth.
Not the children's memories.
Not George's garden.
Not the family Christmas gatherings.
My inheritance.
I folded my hands.
"Patrick, do you understand what an inheritance is?"
"Don't patronize me."
"It's something a person may receive after someone else dies, according to the applicable arrangements. It isn't ownership you acquire while that person is still alive."
He looked away.
"Dad wanted the house to stay in the family."
"Your father left it to me."
"Because you were married!"
"Yes. We were."
"He assumed you'd leave it to me."
I felt an unexpected sadness.
Patrick had spent so many years discussing what George would have wanted that he seemed to have forgotten George had been a real person with actual documented wishes.
"Your father wanted me to be happy," I said.
Patrick shook his head.
"You're twisting everything."
"No. I'm finally remembering it accurately."
He leaned back.
"Do you even understand what you've cost us?"
I studied him.
"What have I cost you?"
"The property value! The opportunity! We could never afford a place like that now."
I waited.
"And Megan already had ideas for what we could do with it."
I looked directly at him.
"I know."
His expression shifted.
"What?"
"I found the renovation folder."
For the first time since arriving, Patrick seemed genuinely surprised.
"What folder?"
"The new kitchen. The enlarged primary suite. Megan's office. The plan to remove the interior wall in the room where your father spent his final months."
His eyes dropped.
I continued.
"I also found the note about persuading me to transfer ownership before starting the renovations."
"Mom..."
"Was that your idea?"
He rubbed his forehead.
"No. Megan just likes planning things."
"Patrick."
He looked at me.
"Did you know?"
A long silence followed.
Finally, he nodded.
"Some of it."
My chest tightened.
"How much?"
"We talked about what the property could become eventually."
"While I was still living there?"
He didn't answer.
"Patrick, did you ever stop to wonder what I wanted?"
He looked genuinely irritated.
"We thought you might be happier somewhere smaller!"
"Did you ask me?"
"Mom, you kept saying the house was a lot of work."
"Because it was. That didn't give you ownership."
He shook his head.
"You make everything sound sinister."
"No," I said softly. "I'm asking you to see me as a human being who is still alive."
Something in my voice made him look up.
For a brief moment, I saw the little boy who used to sit beside me when he was frightened.
Then he said:
"Well, what happens to my inheritance now?"
I felt that final thread of hope stretch thin.
"Patrick, I haven't decided what happens to my estate."
He stared.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I have a lawyer, and I'm reviewing my plans."
"You're cutting me out?"
"I didn't say that."
"You might as well!"
His voice carried across the lounge.
A woman at a nearby table glanced toward us.
I remained calm.
"Please lower your voice."
He pushed back his chair.
"You've changed."
I looked at him for a long moment.
"Yes," I said. "I believe I have."
He stood.
"Don't expect Megan to forgive this."
I felt strangely relieved.
"That isn't something I can control."
Patrick stared at me, searching for the mother who would apologize just to make him stay.
I loved him.
But I did not apologize.
A moment later, he walked out.
I remained beside the window, watching fishing boats sway in the harbor.
Then I took out my phone.
There was a new Facebook notification.
May you like
Megan had posted something.
And judging by the number of comments appearing beneath it, my private family decision was about to become a very public argument.
