My hands were shaking again, but not from fear—from anger, from the realization that I’d spent years being manipulated by someone I’d raised, loved, sacrificed for. How long had he seen me as nothing more than a bank account with a heartbeat?
I needed a plan. Not just updating my will—that was done—but protecting myself, protecting my assets, making sure that whatever I’d built couldn’t be contested or challenged. Thomas had mentioned something about living trusts, about irrevocable transfers. I needed to understand my options, but more than that, I needed to understand what I was dealing with. Was David just greedy, or was there something more calculated happening? Was Jessica driving this, or were they partners in it? And how far would they go?
I spent the evening researching elder financial abuse, undue influence, estate litigation. The stories I found online were horrifying—children draining their parents’ accounts, forging documents, even hastening death to access inheritances sooner. Could my own son be capable of such things? I didn’t want to believe it, but that text message sat in my phone like evidence I couldn’t ignore. He’d shown me who he was. I needed to believe him.
By midnight, I had the outline of a plan. I would document everything, keep records, build a case if I needed one, and I would make changes—strategic, deliberate changes—that would protect what was mine and ensure it went to people and causes that actually deserved it. David wanted his own life. Fine. He could have it without my money funding it.
The next morning, I returned to Thomas’s office with a new purpose. “I want to set up a living trust,” I told him. “And I want to transfer my primary assets into it immediately.”
Thomas leaned back in his chair, studying me over his glasses. “Margaret, that’s a significant step. Once assets are in an irrevocable trust, you can’t easily access them. Are you sure?”
“I’m 71, Thomas. I have a pension, Social Security, and more than enough in my checking account to live comfortably for years. The house, the investment accounts—I don’t need them liquid. I need them protected.”
He nodded slowly. “Protected from whom?”
“From anyone who might try to claim I was incompetent or unduly influenced. When I make my final wishes known,” I said, meeting his gaze steadily, “from my son.”
There. I’d said it out loud—the truth I’d been dancing around for days.
Thomas didn’t look surprised. “I’ll draw up the papers,” he said. “But Margaret, this will take time. And if David has access to your financial information—”
“I’m closing that account today,” I said. “I’ll open a new checking account at a different bank. He won’t see another transaction.”
“Good. But be prepared. When he notices the transfers to the trust, he’ll know something significant has happened.”
“Let him know,” I said. “I’m not hiding. I’m just protecting what’s mine.”
I left Thomas’s office and drove directly to Pacific Northwest Bank, where Robert and I had maintained accounts for 30 years. I closed the joint account with David, opened a new individual account, and arranged for all my recurring deductions to transfer over. The bank manager, Patricia—whom I’d known for years—processed everything efficiently, but gave me a concerned look.
“Mrs. Morrison, is everything all right? It’s unusual to close accounts like this.”
“Everything is fine, Patricia,” I said. “Just simplifying my finances.” I smiled, but she didn’t look convinced.
By Thursday of that week, the trust documents were ready. Thomas had worked quickly, and I appreciated his discretion. The Margaret Morrison Living Trust would hold my house, my investment portfolio, and my savings—everything except the checking account I needed for daily expenses. The beneficiaries were carefully chosen: a scholarship fund at Robert’s old university, the animal shelter where we’d adopted our beloved dog Max, the children’s hospital, and a small bequest to my niece Emma, who’d stayed in touch over the years without ever asking for anything. David’s name appeared nowhere in the document.
I completed the paperwork in Thomas’s office with his paralegal and secretary as witnesses. When it was done, Thomas shook my hand. “The transfers will take about a week to complete. After that, these assets are locked in. You can’t change the beneficiaries without dissolving the entire trust.”
“I understand,” I said. “Thank you, Thomas.”
That evening, David called again. I didn’t answer. He called three more times. On the fifth call, I finally picked up.
“Where have you been?” His voice was sharp with anxiety. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I’ve been busy,” I said calmly. “What do you need, David?”
“What do I—Mom, your bank account is gone. I tried to check on your finances and the account doesn’t exist anymore.”
So he had been monitoring me regularly. The violation of that felt like a physical blow.
“I closed it,” I said. “It was time to streamline my banking.”
“Streamline?” he repeated, incredulous. “Mom, what’s going on? First the lawyer, now this. Are you—Are you sick? Is something wrong?”
Was I sick? The concern in his voice might have touched me a week ago. Now I heard only the fear beneath it—fear that his inheritance was slipping away.
“I’m perfectly healthy, David. I’m just organizing my affairs. It’s what responsible adults do.”
“Organizing your—Jesus, Mom, you’re acting paranoid. Has someone been talking to you, telling you things about me?”
“The only person who told me anything about you was you,” I said quietly. “Remember? Don’t expect me to take care of you. I have my own life and family.”
“I explained that I was stressed. I didn’t mean it—”
“You meant every word,” I said, my voice steady. “And I’m simply respecting your boundaries. You don’t want the responsibility of caring for me. Fine. That also means you don’t get the benefits.”
“What benefits? What are you talking about?”
“Good night, David.” I hung up before he could respond.
