“It’s just so hard,” Catherine was saying, dabbing at eyes that Peggy noticed were completely dry. “Losing Daddy. At least we have each other, the real family, to get through this.”
The real family. As if Peggy had been playing pretend for 40 years.
The reading of the will was scheduled for exactly one week after the funeral. It was held in the downtown Boston office of Marcus Chen, the attorney who’d handled Richard’s estate planning for the past 20 years. Peggy dressed carefully that morning in a simple black dress, her white hair styled the way Richard had always preferred.
Her hands trembled slightly as she drove downtown, but she told herself there was no reason to be nervous. Forty years of marriage. Surely Richard had provided for her. Surely, after four decades of devotion and service, she’d be taken care of.
Steven, Catherine, and Michael arrived together in expensive cars, with expensive lawyers trailing behind. They greeted Peggy with careful politeness and arranged themselves on one side of the conference table, a united front facing her, sitting alone on the other side.
Marcus Chen began with the standard legal formalities about testamentary capacity and proper execution. Then he got to the specifics, reading in the careful monotone that lawyers use when delivering information they’d rather not have to share.
“Richard Morrison’s estate is valued at approximately $8.7 million. This includes the primary residence in Brookline, currently valued at $2.1 million, investment and retirement accounts totaling approximately $6 million, and various other assets.”
Peggy felt her shoulders relax slightly. $8.7 million. That was more than enough to ensure her security for the rest of her life. Maybe Richard had been wise to keep finances private, protecting and growing this nest egg for their future.
“The Brookline residence,” Marcus continued, his voice taking on an even more careful tone, “is left in its entirety to Richard’s children from his first marriage, Steven Morrison, Katherine Morrison Grant, and Michael Morrison, to be divided equally among them, or sold with proceeds split three ways, as they determine appropriate.”
Cold tendrils of fear began creeping up Peggy’s spine. The house, the house where she’d lived for 40 years, wasn’t hers.
“The investment accounts totaling approximately $4.2 million are similarly to be divided equally among Steven, Catherine, and Michael Morrison.”
The cold was spreading through her chest now, making it hard to breathe.
“The retirement accounts valued at approximately $1.8 million. Same distribution to the three children.”
Peggy’s voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Marcus, I don’t understand. What about me? What did Richard leave for me?”
Marcus looked genuinely pained, this man who’d been to dinner parties at their house, who’d laughed at Richard’s jokes, who’d complimented Peggy’s cooking.
“I’m getting to your specific bequest now, Peggy. I have to tell you, I argued against the language Richard used, but he insisted. I’m very sorry.”
He took a deep breath and read from the document before him.
“Richard noted in his will, and I’m required to read this verbatim. ‘My wife, Peggy Anne Morrison, has lived comfortably at my expense for 40 years and has wanted for nothing during the course of our marriage.
She has had the benefit of my wealth, my home, my social standing, and a lifestyle far beyond what she could have achieved on her own working as a secretary. This is more than adequate compensation for her companionship and for the domestic services she has provided over the years.’”
Each word landed like a physical blow. Companionship. Domestic services. Forty years of love and devotion and sacrifice reduced to the language of a service contract. Peggy felt the room tilting slightly. Across the table, Steven was smiling openly now.
Catherine examined her perfectly manicured nails with studied indifference. Michael had his phone out and was texting someone, probably already planning how to spend his inheritance. Marcus continued, his voice heavy with regret.