This morning, I woke up to an email from Patricia.
Margaret, it read. Kevin’s attorney contacted me. He wants to contest the will. Claims undue influence and mental incompetence. I told them they’re wasting their time and money. Your will is solid. Just wanted you to know.
I called her immediately.
“He’s really trying to contest it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. I could hear paper rustling on her end, the low murmur of other attorneys in the hallway. “His attorney says Kevin is desperate. They’re drowning financially. He’s grasping at straws.”
“Will he succeed?” I asked.
“Not a chance,” she said. “We documented everything. You were evaluated by psychiatrists as mentally competent. The will spells out your reasons for disinheriting him in clear, unemotional language. It’s properly witnessed and notarized. From a legal standpoint, it’s a fortress.”
“How much will it cost him to try?” I asked.
“To seriously contest a will like this?” Patricia said. “Probably fifty to seventy-five thousand dollars in legal fees. Money he doesn’t have.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“His attorney is probably taking it on contingency,” she added, “hoping we’ll settle to avoid the fight. But we won’t settle. We’ll answer, we’ll litigate, and we’ll win.”
“Good,” I said. “Do it.”
“Margaret,” Patricia said gently, “are you sure? This will stir up more conflict. Court dates. Depositions. Ugly emails. Family gossip.”
I looked out my sunroom window at the narrow slice of Chicago sky visible between the brick buildings. A CTA train rattled by in the distance, the familiar metallic screech cutting through the quiet morning.
“Patricia,” I said, “Kevin chose to humiliate me at an airport rather than stand up to his wife. He chose his comfort over my dignity. And now he’s choosing to contest my will because he thinks he deserves my money. That isn’t a misunderstanding. That isn’t a rough patch. That isn’t family. That’s entitlement and greed in a lab coat.”
There was a pause.
