Last Will and Testament

Where dreams are broken

I walked into the law offices of Bennett & Associates. A young brunette woman greeted me with a smile, “Mr. Carver?” she asked.

I nodded, and she asked me to follow her to a large conference room. There sat Mom and my half-sister Rachel on one side of the table. I smiled at Mom’s Aunt Mable and her husband, Uncle Todd, who sat opposite them while ignoring my mother. Along the back wall were two men I didn’t know.

Mom grimaced at me, “What are you doing here?

“I received an invite, and it was signed by Trevor Bennett himself,” was my confident reply. I looked for a place to sit, but there was only one chair at each end. Trevor walked into the room with a mission. He sat at the head of the table and pointed for me to sit at the other end. He placed a recording device in the middle of the table.

Without emotion or introductions, he began, “This is the last will and testament of Daniel J. Murphey. It was his wish that everyone named in his will be present for this meeting. Those who would not or could not attend would not be penalized. However, there are clauses for anyone challenging this meeting.” He stared at Mom for just a moment.

Trevor read the legal prelude as directed by my grandfather. Along with the notarization, and registration with the county clerk, there was a certificate signed by his family doctor, his oncologist, and a licensed psychiatrist, properly documenting that his mental health was in good standing at the time he signed his will.

Trevor continued without asking for questions, “My sixty-nine Mustang was sold to Melvin Harrison. Harold Dixon bought the seventy-three GTO. My 1977 black Trans-Am was bought by my grandson, Garrett Carver. They agreed to leave them in my garage until after my death.” Trevor rose from his chair, handed the keys to each of the new owners, and said, “We arranged a pickup time this Saturday at ten a.m.” All three of us said we could be there. Trevor assured us the paperwork was complete.

As he sat down, he regained the spot he had left off in the will. “I owned three rental properties with a valuation of 6.5 million dollars. I sold these properties when the doctor told me about the cancer. I helped Garrett by paying his tuition at university because his mother wasted his college fund on her self-righteous daughter. I realized there are other deserving kids needing help with tuition and set up a trust fund so they may go to college.”

Mom's nails scraped across the table, and she started to speak when Trevor held up his hand, “Ten years ago, I started a reverse mortgage on my house. This modest home served Tammy and me for forty years before I lost her to cancer. I gave all my savings and investments, except for a small sum of money, to cancer research in her name. Hopefully, my grandson Bennett will have more options if he faces this when he is older.”

Mom’s face burned with rage, for she wanted the house for Rachel. “To my sister Mable Willoughby, I leave our mother’s jewelry. It has more sentimental value than retail price, but you have always wanted it. That is why I gave it to you when I went into hospice for safekeeping. As of my death, full ownership transfers to you.”

Mom’s mouth opened as if to say something. Still, Trevor cut her off again, “To my entitled daughter, Elizabeth Browning, formerly Chisum, Calhoun, Miller, Carver, and Murphey, I leave the balance on my house not paid by the reverse mortgage.”

“How much is that?” she blurted out.

Trevor reached for another piece of paper, “After, title and other fees, there is $10,255.26 in equity left on the property.”

“That’s it!” she screamed.

Trevor didn’t flinch. “To my granddaughter, Rachel Miller, I leave the remaining cash in my checking account after all my medical bills are paid.”

Mom, still outraged, “How much is there!”

Picking up his notes, “$1074.36.”

Mom’s eyes darted around the room looking for help, and then she remembered, “What about the Bentley?”

“That was signed over to me six months ago to cover my cost of handling his estate. If I were able to ensure that your share of his inheritance was less than $25,000, it would be mine, free and clear. If not, I would have to pay his estate the difference over that amount.”

“My father hated me that much?” she questioned defeatedly.

I spoke up, “You haven’t seen him in twenty years. The last time you talked at him, you yelled that he was a greedy, pathetic loser who would die alone. He didn’t die alone. He had me, the son you disown for not following your rules, and Aunt Mable, whom you have never liked, by his side. You festered disdain for all of us because we wouldn’t submit to your overbearing presence.  His funeral had several hundred people pass through to say their goodbyes, but you wouldn’t have known that because you were vacationing in the Bahamas.” These were the first words I spoke to Mom in ten years and hopefully the last ever.

“But I took out loans thinking I would inherit his money,” she cried.

“Twenty years ago, when I asked you how I was going to pay for college, you told me, and I quote, ‘it’s not my problem.’”

The small room went quiet. The two strangers against the wall were clearly uncomfortable seeing the wreck of the woman who gave birth to me.

“I can fight the will,” Mom stated with false confidence.

Trevor shook his head, “You will lose. The will is legally solid, and you forfeit the small amount left to you by the terms of the will.”

I rose from my chair to leave, but stopped and added, “You are a controlling woman who has to be in charge of everything. Your unwillingness to cooperate with the people who tried to love you cost you five husbands, your only son, your father, and now the large inheritance you hoped would set you up for life.”

I left the room, turning my back on the woman I called Mom for thirty-seven years. My wife and two girls, whom my mom had never met, were waiting for me when I arrived home. They hugged me, knowing the loss I felt of the only family I had left, my grandfather and mentor, Daniel J. Murphey.