“She wanted to know what documents would be necessary if the property were transferred to a family trust.”
My breathing slowed.
“She doesn’t own the house.”
“I know.”
“She has no legal authority over it.”
“I know.”
“Then why would she ask?”
“That’s the question.”
I thought about Hawaii.
About Linda’s suitcase.
About the senior-living comments Kevin had apparently tolerated.
About a house my daughter-in-law had already promised to her mother.
Richard spoke quietly.
“Margaret, there’s more.”
I waited.
“She requested information about changing the successor trustee.”
“To whom?”
Another pause.
“To Kevin.”
I almost laughed.
“He already is the successor trustee.”
“Your daughter-in-law apparently didn’t know that.”
That frightened me more than if she had.
Because it meant Jessica had been investigating my estate without even understanding what documents already existed.
Richard continued.
“The planner refused to discuss your assets without your written authorization.”
“Good.”
“But Jessica asked him one other question.”
“What?”
“She wanted to know whether a physician’s statement about cognitive decline could allow someone else to take control of a revocable trust.”
For several seconds, I heard nothing.
Not Richard.
Not the furnace.
Not the winter wind outside my window.
Only Jessica’s voice from O’Hare.
You’re too old for Hawaii anyway.
Suddenly those words no longer sounded like an insult.
They sounded like practice.
“Richard.”
“I’m here.”
“Tomorrow isn’t soon enough.”
“What do you want to do?”
I looked around the home my family had apparently already begun dividing.
“Come today.”
To be continued…
Would you still call this an argument over a vacation—or something much bigger?
