“I understand you’ve hired James Morrison to represent you,” I said.
“How did you—” She stopped herself. “See, Mom? This is exactly what I mean. You’re becoming paranoid. Suspicious. Snooping around. It isn’t healthy.”
“His name is on the petition, Patricia. Page fourteen. Right above his bar number.”
Silence.
“I have to go,” she said, and hung up.
That afternoon, I sat in Robert’s study, surrounded by his books and his framed awards and the leather chair that still held the shape of him.
On his desk was a photograph from our wedding day. Me in a plain white dress with no lace, because I thought lace was fussy. Robert in a rented tuxedo, looking at me like I held all the answers in the world.
Robert knew this day would come. He’d tried to warn me for years. He said Patricia and Michael saw our marriage as a business transaction, and that in their accounting, I had contributed nothing of value.
I opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the envelope.
He’d given it to me two years earlier, on a Sunday night after a particularly ugly dinner with Patricia and Michael. Michael had spent the whole meal asking Robert pointed questions about the company’s succession plan.
“When they come for you,” Robert had said, pressing the envelope into my hands, “and they will come for you, Dorothy, open this.”
I had put it in the drawer and never opened it. I had hoped I’d never need to.
Now I slid my thumb under the flap.
Inside was a single business card and a note in Robert’s slanting handwriting.
“Dorothy, call Margaret Walsh. She remembers you.”
The card read: Hon. Margaret Walsh. Probate and Family Court.
The name tugged at something deep in my memory. I couldn’t quite place it.
Not yet.
I decided to go see Patricia one more time before this turned into a war. Maybe, just maybe, I could make her understand what she was doing to our family.
I drove to her house on Saturday morning.
Their house was everything mine wasn’t. Modern, cold, and very impressive. Big glass windows. White walls. Furniture that looked like nobody had ever sat on it.
Robert and I had helped them buy it. We’d given them $85,000 toward the down payment as a wedding gift, back when Robert still thought Michael might grow up.
Patricia opened the door in yoga pants with her hair in a messy bun.
“Mom. What a surprise.” Her tone made it clear it wasn’t a pleasant one. “Michael’s at work.”
Good, I thought. This conversation needed to happen between a mother and her daughter.
I noticed she’d redecorated again since the funeral. New sectional sofa in pale gray velvet. A huge abstract painting over the fireplace, all slashes of orange and black. A glass coffee table with a single orchid on it.
All of it, I knew, paid for with money they’d “borrowed” from us over the years and never returned.
She made coffee in a machine that hissed like a cat. I accepted a cup more out of habit than desire.
“Patricia,” I said. “We need to talk about this lawsuit.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She sat down across from me and crossed her legs. “You’re sick, Mom. Even if you can’t see it. This is for your own protection.”
“I’m not sick, sweetheart. I’m grieving. I’m adjusting. But I’m not incompetent.”
She gave me a look that was half pity and half frustration.
“Mom. Yesterday you called me asking how to transfer money between your checking and your savings account. Last week, you couldn’t figure out how to pay your electric bill online. These aren’t normal aging issues.”
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
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