Margaret Walsh, Superior Court judge. The name seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.
I had no idea what was coming next.
I decided to visit Patricia one more time before this legal war began in earnest. Maybe, just maybe, I could make her understand what she was doing to our family.
Their house was everything mine wasn’t: modern, cold, impressive. Patricia had redecorated again since Robert’s funeral, I noticed. New furniture, new art, all paid for with money they’d borrowed from us over the years.
“Mom, what a surprise,” Patricia said, though her tone suggested it wasn’t a pleasant one. “Michael’s at work.”
Good, I thought. This conversation needed to happen between mother and daughter.
I sat in their pristine living room, accepting the coffee she offered more out of habit than desire.
“Patricia, we need to talk about this lawsuit.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. You’re sick, Mom. Even if you can’t see it. This legal action is for your own protection.”
“I’m not sick, sweetheart. I’m grieving. I’m adjusting, but I’m not incompetent.”
She sat across from me, her expression a mixture of pity and frustration.
“Mom, yesterday you called me asking how to transfer money between accounts. Last week you couldn’t figure out how to pay bills online. These aren’t normal aging issues.”
I studied my daughter’s face, seeing Robert’s stubborn jaw and my own green eyes. When had she become so calculating?
“Patricia, what if I told you that I’ve been pretending?”
She blinked. “Pretending what?”
“Pretending to be helpless. Pretending to need help with things I understand perfectly well.”
For a moment, uncertainty flickered across her features. Then she shook her head.
“Mom, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would you pretend to be confused?”
“Because people treat you differently when they think you’re weak. They tell you things they wouldn’t tell someone they considered a threat.”
Patricia’s laugh was sharp. “A threat? Mom? You’re 65 years old. You haven’t worked outside the home in 30 years. What kind of threat could you possibly be?”
I stood up, smoothing my skirt. “The kind you’re about to find out about.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I paused at their front door, my hand on the brass handle Robert had admired when we’d helped them buy this house.
“It means, Patricia, that you and Michael have made a very serious miscalculation about who you’re dealing with.”
“Mom, you’re scaring me now. This paranoid talk is exactly why we filed the petition.”
I turned back to her one last time. “I love you, Patricia. I always will. But I won’t let you or anyone else steal what your father worked his entire life to build.”
Driving home, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in years. Not fear, not sadness, but anticipation. Patricia thought she was hunting a rabbit, but she was about to discover she’d cornered a wolf.
That evening, I made the phone call I’d been putting off. The number on Margaret Walsh’s business card rang twice before a familiar voice answered.