Chapter 9: What Comes After a Wedding That Didn't End
Three days later, I met with an attorney.
Her name was Patricia Osei.
She had been recommended by a colleague and came with the reputation of someone who had seen everything and was surprised by nothing.
She read through the two letters, the transfer agreement, and a copy of my father's original estate documents without changing her expression.
Then she set the papers down on her desk and looked at me.
"The transfer agreement may or may not be valid," she said.
"Depending on when it was executed relative to your father's cognitive decline during his illness, and whether it was witnessed correctly.
We would need to examine it closely."
"Can it be contested?"
"By your mother, as the primary beneficiary, yes.
With reasonable grounds." She folded her hands.
"The letters are a separate matter.
Written threats designed to suppress a family member's ability to contact you.
That's potentially actionable, depending on what your mother wants to pursue."
"What are her options?"
"She could seek a formal cease and desist.
She could pursue a civil harassment claim.
Or she could do nothing official and simply have documentation that protects her going forward." She paused.
"That choice belongs to her.
Not to you."
I nodded.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want the account audited.
I want to know exactly how much came from my father's estate and when it was transferred.
And I want my mother to have the option to reclaim what was legally hers if the agreement is found to be invalid."
"That's achievable." She made a note.
"And the marriage itself?"
I looked out the window of her office.
Sixth floor.
The city going about its business below.
"I'm still figuring that out," I said.
She nodded and did not press.
Two days after that, Patricia sent a formal letter to Diane.
A copy went to Nia, because Nia was now technically my spouse and the situation intersected with our marital estate.
I had called Nia before it was sent, because whatever else was true, she deserved to not be blindsided by her own mail.
She picked up on the first ring.
"I expected this," she said.
Not accusing.
Just stating.
"I know."
"Is there anything you need from me to help the process?"
"The bank statements for the account.
Everything from the beginning."
A pause.
"I'll have them to your attorney by end of week."
"Thank you."
Another pause.
Longer.
"Michael.
How are you?"
The question was so ordinary that it caught me off guard.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
"Me neither," she said.
And then, quietly: "I'm sorry.
I've said it before and I'll keep saying it because it's true.
I'm sorry."
I didn't respond to that.
Not because I didn't hear it.
But because I wasn't ready to do anything with it yet.
We said goodbye and I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and stood there for a while in the quiet of an apartment that now felt like it belonged to a version of my life I had not yet decided the shape of.
Mom came for dinner that evening.
She brought the green box from the closet — the one she had mentioned in the ballroom.
The one with my father's papers.
She set it on the kitchen table between us.
May you like
"I think it's time we go through this together," she said.
I made us each a cup of tea and we sat down and opened the box.
