They actually laughed when I walked into that courtroom. My own daughter, Patricia, and her husband, Michael, sat there in their designer suits, snickering like schoolchildren when they saw me shuffle in with my old handbag and sensible shoes. Michael even elbowed the man next to him, probably making some joke about the confused old lady who thought she could defend herself.
You see, six months ago, my husband Robert passed away and left me everything—every penny of his fortune, every investment, every property. Patricia expected to inherit millions, but Robert’s will was crystal clear. It all went to his loving wife, Dorothy Hamilton.
Not a single dollar to our ungrateful daughter. That’s when Patricia decided I “must be mentally incompetent.” How else could a simple housewife end up with a $60 million estate? She hired lawyers, filed papers claiming I’d forged Robert’s signature, that I’d manipulated a dying man.
The paperwork painted me as a gold-digging wife who’d somehow tricked her way into an inheritance. I remember sitting in my kitchen that morning, reading the legal documents over my coffee. Patricia was suing her own mother, claiming fraud and elder abuse.
She wanted me declared mentally unfit. Wanted the court to overturn Robert’s will and give her what she believed was rightfully hers. The irony was almost funny.
Almost. You see, Patricia had always seen me as just Mom—the woman who packed her lunches, drove her to ballet lessons, and kept house while Daddy worked. She never asked about my life before marriage.
Never wondered why I had law books in my study. Never questioned why judges occasionally sent me Christmas cards. “Mrs.
Hamilton,” her lawyer, James Morrison, had said during our deposition, speaking slowly as if I were deaf as well as stupid. “Can you explain to us how a woman with no legal background, no business experience, and no college degree came to possess such detailed knowledge of Mr. Hamilton’s business affairs?”
I’d smiled sweetly and told him I’d always been good with numbers.
Let him think what he wanted. Now, sitting in this courtroom watching my daughter’s confident smirk, I almost felt sorry for what was about to happen. Patricia thought she was so clever, so prepared.
She had no idea that her simple housewife mother had been reading legal briefs since before she was born. The bailiff called the court to order, and Judge Margaret Walsh entered. The moment she saw me, her steps faltered slightly.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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