“Additionally,” he continued, “we suggest a monthly stipend of $25,000 to support their lifestyle while Jackson focuses on his academic career and Amelia potentially transitions to family life.”
Family life. The implication was clear, and it made my blood run cold. They were already dangling potential grandchildren as leverage.
“And if I decline this generous proposal?” I asked, my voice cool.
Amelia’s facade cracked slightly, a flash of anger crossing her features before she composed herself.
“Then we would need to explore other options. Albert has mentioned the possibility that Harold’s will might be contestable, especially if we could demonstrate that you influenced him unduly during his illness.”
“Or,” Albert added smoothly, “concerns could be raised about your capacity to manage such significant assets at your age. Courts often look favorably on claims from children seeking to protect family wealth from potential mismanagement.”
They were threatening me, threatening to declare me incompetent or accuse me of manipulating my dying husband, all to get their hands on Harold’s life’s work.
I stood up slowly, my decision made. “I think this conversation has gone far enough. I’m going to have to ask you both to leave my home.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Amelia said, her pleasant mask completely gone now. “Jackson will be devastated to learn how little you care about his future.”
“I doubt that very much,” I replied. “In fact, I wonder if Jackson knows you’re here at all.”
Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, he does. This was his idea.”
The lie was so transparent, it almost made me laugh.
“Then I’ll discuss it with him directly when he returns. Until then, I have nothing more to say to either of you.”
Albert gathered his papers, looking uncomfortable for the first time. Perhaps he was realizing he had misjudged the situation or the ease with which I could be intimidated.
As they walked to the door, Amelia turned back, her expression now openly hostile. “This isn’t over, Bridget. You can share what’s rightfully part of our family now or lose your son forever. The choice is yours.”
After they left, I sat trembling in Harold’s chair, anger and fear washing over me in waves. Not fear for myself, or even for the money, but for Jackson. If Amelia was willing to go this far after less than a week of marriage, what else might she do?
I reached for my phone and called Linda, my attorney. Her secretary put me through immediately upon hearing the urgency in my voice.
“Linda,” I said without preamble, “I need your help. My daughter-in-law just showed up with someone claiming to be a financial adviser, demanding $10 million and threatening legal action if I refuse.”
Linda’s response was immediate and reassuring. “Don’t worry, Bridget. They have no legal ground to stand on. Document everything that was said today while it’s fresh in your mind. Email it to me, and don’t communicate with either of them again until we’ve developed a strategy.”
After hanging up, I did as Linda suggested, typing out every detail of the conversation while it was still fresh. Then I called Thomas, my financial adviser, to alert him to the situation and ensure no one could access any of my accounts without proper authorization.
That night, I barely slept, my mind racing with worry for Jackson and anger at Amelia’s manipulation. I wondered where my son really was and if he had any idea what his new wife was doing in his name.
The confrontation had made one thing crystal clear. My instincts about Amelia had been right all along. Now I needed to find a way to help Jackson see the truth before she did irreparable damage to his life and our relationship.
The day after Amelia’s ambush with her so-called financial adviser, I was still reeling from the confrontation. I had spent the morning on the phone with Linda discussing legal protections and next steps. When the doorbell rang, my heart jumped to my throat, fearing Amelia had returned with more demands or threats.
Instead, when I opened the door, I found Jackson standing alone on my porch, looking haggard and nothing like a man on his honeymoon. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles beneath them, his clothes rumpled as if he had slept in them.
“Mom,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Can I come in?”
I pulled him into a hug before ushering him inside. Up close, he looked even worse, a shadow of the confident professor who had stood at the altar just days earlier.
“Jackson, what happened? Why aren’t you in Bali?”
I led him to the kitchen, automatically putting on the kettle for tea like I had done throughout his childhood. Whenever he was upset, he slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, running his hands through his disheveled hair.
“We came back early. Amelia said she had a work emergency, but…” he trailed off, looking lost.
“But that wasn’t true?” I prompted gently, setting a mug of chamomile tea in front of him.
Jackson looked up, his eyes haunted. “She told me she was meeting with a colleague yesterday afternoon. When she came back to our apartment, she was furious, saying you had been cruel and dismissive when she stopped by to check on you.”
So that was the story she had concocted.