I Was Still Away Recovering When My Children Talked About Their “Early Plans” And Selling Everything From The TV To The Beach House. But The Shock Came When The Notary’s Office Called To Inform Them: “The Property Has An Owner – And It’s Not ANYONE IN THE FAMILY.”

My youngest, always following his siblings’ lead. “We should move quickly before the market shifts.”
My eyelids felt like they were weighted with stones, but somehow I forced them open. The sterile ceiling of the hospital room came into focus, followed by the steady beeping of monitors that had apparently been my only faithful companions these past… how long had it been?

Days? Weeks? The last thing I remembered was reaching for my reading glasses, a sudden crushing pressure in my chest, the world tilting sideways, then darkness.

Now I lay motionless, breath shallow, as my children divided my life while machines confirmed I still had one. “What about her personal things?” Vanessa again. “The photo albums, Dad’s letters—”

“Storage unit,” Daniel replied dismissively.

“We can sort through it later or just toss it. Nobody wants that sentimental junk.”
Sentimental junk. Sixty-eight years of memories reduced to junk by my own son.

“The realtor’s meeting me at the beach house tomorrow,” Robert said. “She thinks we can close by the end of the month if we price it aggressively.”
The beach house. My sanctuary.

The place where I’d watched sunsets with Richard before illness took him five years ago. The place where my grandchildren had built sand castles and collected shells. The place that held so many secrets my children knew nothing about.

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