He had accepted a schedule suggesting that my personal use of my home could be restricted.
Without asking me.
Without discussing it.
Without even telling me that strangers might arrive expecting to find the doors open.
I called him again.
"Did you agree to keep me out of my own house during those dates?"
His answer came slowly.
"That language was standard for guest reservations."
"Did you read it before you signed?"
"Yes."
"Then you knew what it meant."
He sounded exhausted.
"I assumed we'd explain the arrangements later."
I stared out at the waves.
"After people had already paid?"
He didn't answer.
I asked whether he understood why the weekend gathering had frightened me.
"I wasn't frightened of your friends, Robert."
"I know."
"I was frightened because my own son acted as though I no longer had the right to decide who entered my home."
His breathing became uneven.
"I never wanted you to feel that way."
"Then why did you sign?"
For the first time, he stopped blaming misunderstandings.
"Because Megan thought we could make enough money to help with our expenses."
I waited.
He explained that rising bills and financial pressure had made the projected rental income attractive.
He had convinced himself that the cottage sat empty often enough for the arrangement to benefit everyone.
But instead of discussing those thoughts with me, he had allowed Megan to treat the property as a future family asset.
Eventually, the future had become the present in their minds.
"When we saw the numbers, it just seemed sensible," he admitted.
I thought of the difference between asking for help and taking something without permission.
"Your father and I helped you whenever we could."
"I know."
"But we never taught you that someone else's property becomes yours because you need money."
He began to cry quietly.
I sat motionless, wishing I could comfort him without surrendering the truth.
That had always been my weakness.
A few minutes later, Megan interrupted.
"Robert, give me the phone."
I heard him refuse.
She raised her voice.
"Your mother doesn't understand the financial consequences."
I straightened.
"Then explain them to me."
Megan took the phone anyway.
"If you refuse all those bookings, there could be cancellation penalties."
"I never authorized those bookings."
"Robert signed the agreement."
"Robert doesn't own my property."
Her breathing grew louder.
"You're going to create a huge problem for us."
I waited until she stopped speaking.
"The problem began when you used something that didn't belong to you."
She fell silent.
"Did you ever consider that I might want to spend summer weekends in the home Henry and I built?"
"We thought you'd be flexible."
"You thought I'd be excluded."
"That's not fair."
I looked at the booking schedule.
"Then tell me why it says my occupancy would be restricted."
She didn't respond.
I ended the call and sent every document to Mr. Collins.
By afternoon, he had reviewed the agreement and prepared correspondence for the rental manager.
He cautioned me that questions concerning deposits and contractual obligations would depend on the exact terms, representations, and applicable law.
But he was clear about one essential fact.
Nothing he had reviewed established that I had agreed to make my cottage available.
The rental manager needed immediate written notice of my ownership and lack of authorization.
I signed the necessary correspondence.
I also approved changing the remaining access codes and updating the security arrangements.
Every decision felt painful.
For years, I had imagined the cottage eventually passing into Robert's hands.
Now I was paying professionals to make sure my own son couldn't enter without asking.
That evening, Robert arrived alone.
I watched him step onto the porch carrying a folder and looking older than he had two days earlier.
I opened the door but didn't invite him inside immediately.
"Did Megan come with you?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because she thinks you're trying to ruin us."
I stepped aside.
Robert entered the living room and looked around at the restored furniture, photographs, and neatly folded quilt.
His expression changed when he saw Henry's mug sitting beside the window.
"Dad always loved that cup."
"Yes."
He touched the back of the old armchair.
For a moment, I saw the little boy who used to fall asleep there after playing on the beach.
Then he placed his folder on the table.