‘It’s Just A Meeting, My Son Said When I Didn’t Receive An Invitation To His Big Engagement Party. So I Transferred Back The $25k From The Honeymoon Fund And Updated The Flights I Had Arranged For Them.

That evening, I did something I had contemplated throughout my time in Aspen, but hadn’t quite found the courage to initiate. I called a real estate agent and scheduled an appointment to discuss selling my house. The five-bedroom suburban home I had maintained primarily because it held James’ childhood memories and had space for the family I had always assumed he would bring home frequently.

It was time to create a space that reflected Diana Wellington as she was now. Not as she had been defined by others. The thought was terrifying.

And exhilarating. The for sale sign appeared in my front yard on a Tuesday morning. By noon, I had received calls from three neighbors, two of James’s childhood friends’ mothers, and Lisa from my office.

All expressing variations of surprise and concern. “Are you ill?” asked Maryanne Porter from across the street, the unspoken question hanging beneath her words. “What else would prompt a settled widow to suddenly sell the family home?”

“I’m perfectly healthy,” I assured each caller.

“Just ready for a change.”

The explanation satisfied no one. Least of all James. He called within hours of the sign’s installation.

“You’re selling the house?”

His voice held the same disbelief he’d exhibited as a teenager when I’d finally donated his outgrown childhood toys. “Yes,” I confirmed, maintaining the calm certainty I’d been practicing. “I’ve been considering it for some time.”

“But this is our home,” he protested.

“All my memories are here. My childhood. Dad’s last years.”

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