Page 87 of Doctor One Night

4:26 pm PST

I sit across from the attorney, a middle-aged man with graying hair and an impeccable suit. The office smells faintly of leather and old books, a comforting scent that’s at odds with the emotional weight I’m carrying.

The paperwork before me is straightforward. Everything my mother left behind was cleanly organized into a trust. She was meticulous, as always. She handled every detail, leaving no loose ends.

“Your mother made this as seamless as possible, Dr. Parrish,” the attorney says, sliding the final document across the table. “All that’s left is for you to sign here, authorizing the listing of the house and the estate sale of its contents. We’ll handle everything from the listing to the final sale.”

I nod, picking up the pen. “She was thorough. No surprises there.”

He offers a small smile. “It’s rare to see an estate this well organized. She must have been quite a woman.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice catching slightly. “You could say that.”

I sign the papers, each stroke of the pen another step in saying goodbye. The attorney watches quietly, giving me space to process. When I’m done, he gathers the documents and hands me a card.

“If you need anything else, feel free to reach out. I’ll coordinate with the estate company to ensure everything goes smoothly. You mentioned wanting to go to the house yourself?”

“That's right,” I reply, slipping the card into my pocket. “I’ll go today. Just to pick up a few things, ship them back to Alabama. Whatever’s left can be sold through the estate sale.”

“Understood. Take your time, Dr. Parrish. There’s no rush.”

I thank him and stand to leave, the weight of finality pressing down on me. As I walk out of the office, the reality of what’s coming next begins to settle in. Going back to her house, the place where she lived and breathed, where every corner holds a piece of her, I’m not sure how I’ll handle it. But I have to go nonetheless.

1034 Benedict Canyon Drive

Beverly Hills

5:12 pm

The house is quiet, eerily so, as I unlock the door and step inside. It smells like her: a mix of the perfume she always wore and the faint scent of old wood and polished floors. I close the door behind me, the sound echoing through the empty house. Everything is exactly as she left it, down to the neatly folded throw on the couch and the stack of unopened mail on the entry table.

I wander through the rooms, picking up items here and there, small things that hold meaning—a framed photo of us when I was a kid, a few of her favorite books, the scarf she always wore in the winter. I pack them carefully into a box, each item a thread in the tapestry of her life.

It’s when I enter her bedroom that I find it. A letter sitting on the side table with my name written in her precise, familiar handwriting. My heart skips a beat as I pick it up, my fingers trembling slightly as I unfold the paper.

My Dearest Hunter,

If you’re reading this, then I’m no longer with you, but I need you to know that I’ve always been with you, even when it didn’t seem that way. I know I wasn’t the easiest person to live with or love. I pushed you hard, sometimes too hard, and I see that now. But I always wanted the best for you. I wanted you to be the man I knew you could be—the man you are now.

You were an exemplary child. You were more than I deserved, and I see that now, too. I know I made mistakes. I know I was harsh, that I asked too much of you, and for that, I am truly sorry.

But, Hunter, I need you to understand that everything I did was out of love. Twisted and wrong as it may have been, it was love. I wanted to see you soar, to reach heights I never could. And you did. You’ve become a man I am so incredibly proud of, even if I didn’t say it enough. But please know that in my heart, I was bursting with pride every time I thought of you.

I hope you can forgive me for the pressure, for the distance I created between us. I hope you can find peace knowing that, in the end, I loved you with everything I had, even if I didn’t know how to express it outwardly.

I don’t know how much time I have left, but if there’s one thing I want you to carry with you, it’s this: You were always enough, Hunter. More than enough. And I was the lucky one to have you as my son.

Take care of yourself. And please, be happy.

With all my love,

Mom

Tears blur my vision as I fold the letter back up, my chest tightening with the words I so desperately wanted from her my whole life. She wasn’t a warm woman, and this letter isn’t a warm embrace, but it's huge coming from her. It’s closure. It’s everything to me.

There’s that lingering thought, the one I haven't been able to shake since that last phone call. The way she said goodbye on the phone, the way everything in the house is perfectly in place, this letter left so clearly here—it is almost too neat, too planned.

The ME declared her death natural, but there’s a part of me that wonders if she had a hand in how she went. Did she choose to go on her own terms, in a way that she could control, just like everything else in her life?

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