“I don’t want to sell.”
“Then don’t. The trust is ironclad. You’re the sole beneficiary. No one can force you to sell.”
“They don’t know I own it.”
“Are you planning to tell them?”
I thought about it. About four years of silence. Four years of being the smallest contributor to their financial needs while actually being their largest benefactor. Four years of watching them assume I was less successful than my siblings.
“Not yet,” I said.
“So you’ll decline the offer through the trust. Make it look like an anonymous investor who’s not interested in selling.”
“I can do that. When they make the offer, I’ll respond professionally. Decline on behalf of the trust. Clean and simple.”
“Thank you.”
“Rebecca, can I ask why you’re not telling them?”
“Because I want to see what they do next.”
Two weeks later, my parents listed the Ballard townhouse for $1.35 million. It sold in nine days for $1.32 million.
They submitted an offer on the Queen Anne house through their agent. $3.5 million. All cash from the Ballard sale plus $2.18 million from their remaining savings.
David responded on behalf of Morgan Property Trust.
“Thank you for your offer. The property is not currently for sale. The trust has long-term plans for this asset and is not considering offers at this time.”
My parents were devastated.
“They won’t even negotiate,” Mom told me over the phone. “Just a flat no.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We put all our plans into this. Now we’re back to square one.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. We have $1.32 million from the Ballard sale. We need to invest it somewhere that generates income.”
“Maybe talk to a financial adviser.”
“We are. But, Rebecca, we’re running out of options.”
Over the next three months, my parents spiraled. They bought another rental property, a condo in Renton for $625,000, and rented it for $2,400 a month. After expenses, they netted $1,200 monthly.
They increased their investment withdrawals, trying to make up the shortfall. Their savings dwindled. $580,000 became $450,000. Then $380,000.
By August 2024, Mom called another family meeting.
“We need to make a difficult decision,” she said.
We were back in her apartment. Caroline, James, me. Dad was still in the nursing facility, his condition stable but requiring constant care.
“We can’t sustain the current situation,” Mom continued. “We’re depleting savings too fast.”
“What are you proposing?” Caroline asked.
“We need to increase contributions from you three significantly.”
“How much?” James asked.
“We need another $4,000 per month total. Split between the three of you.”
Caroline and James exchanged glances.
“That’s $1,333 each,” James said.
“Actually,” Mom said quietly, “we were hoping Caroline and James could each contribute $1,500. And Rebecca could contribute $1,000.”
“Why less for Rebecca?” Caroline asked.
“She makes less than you two. We don’t want to burden her unfairly.”
I sat there silent. The daughter who made less. Who needed to be protected from financial burden while owning a $3.8 million property they’d once lived in.
“I can do $1,500,” Caroline said.
“Same,” James agreed.
“Rebecca?” Mom looked at me.
“I’ll do $1,000.”
“Thank you, all of you. This means everything.”
New monthly contributions: Caroline, $4,500 total. James, $4,000. Me, $2,000. Their shortfall was covered for now.
In November 2024, I received an email from my property management company.
“Rebecca, the tenants in the Queen Anne property gave notice. They’re relocating to Austin for work. Lease ends January 31, 2025.”
I called them.
“Any interest in renewing?”