Chapter 2: The Price of Being Their Mother
Thomas Brennan's office occupied the fourth floor of a brick building in downtown Denver. Richard and I had first visited him nearly twenty years earlier, when we updated our wills after Michael's business began to take off.
Back then, Richard had carried a folder stuffed with paperwork while I brought homemade lemon bars for the office staff.
Thomas had laughed when he saw them.
“Mrs. Collins, if every client brought these, I'd never leave my desk.””
“You'd better not eat them all at once,” Richard had warned.
“She'll expect a full report.””
Those memories seemed to belong to another lifetime when I entered the same office alone.
Thomas stood to greet me.
“Maggie. It's good to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.””
He was in his early sixties now, with silver hair, reading glasses, and the same calm manner I remembered.
He noticed the hospital paperwork sticking out of my handbag.
“Have you been unwell?””
I sat down and explained what had happened.
I told him about the chest pain, the overnight stay, the unanswered calls, and the conference call that ended with Michael telling me to figure it out myself.
Thomas listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he folded his hands on the desk.
“I'm sorry,” he said quietly.
I looked at him.
“I'm not here to complain about my children. I need to make decisions while I'm still capable of making them.””
“That's sensible,” he replied.
“What decisions are you considering?””
I took a breath.
“I want to review my will. My beneficiaries. My investments. Everything.””
Thomas opened a legal pad.
“All right. Let's start with your current arrangements.””
For the next hour, we reviewed the estate Richard and I had spent our lives building.
The house was worth approximately $900,000. Our savings and investments totaled around $600,000. A life insurance policy worth $250,000 remained part of the estate planning we needed to review, although its eventual distribution would depend on the policy's ownership and beneficiary terms.
The estimated total was $1.75 million.
I had never thought of it as a fortune.
It was the house where my children learned to walk. It was Richard's retirement account, the proceeds of decades of careful saving, the money we had set aside because neither of us wanted to become a burden to anyone.
Thomas adjusted his glasses.
“Your current will divides your estate equally among Jennifer, Michael, and Lisa, subject to the specific terms. Is that still what you want?””
For a moment, I couldn't answer.
I remembered Jennifer crying when she broke her arm at nine. Michael falling asleep against my shoulder during a thunderstorm. Lisa holding my hand at her father's funeral.
They were not strangers.
They were the children whose scraped knees I had kissed, whose feverish foreheads I had cooled, whose names I had whispered in prayers when they were too young to understand what worry meant.
“I don't know,” I admitted.
Thomas didn't rush me.
“Then we don't have to decide everything today. But I want you to consider one thing. Are you changing your plans because you want to punish them, or because your plans no longer reflect what you believe is right?””
I looked toward the window.
“I don't want revenge.””
“Good.””
“I want security. I want to know that if I become ill again, someone will have the authority to help me without my children arguing over money. I want my wishes respected.””
Thomas nodded.
“Those are reasonable concerns. We can discuss appropriate medical directives, financial powers of attorney, and arrangements for professional assistance. We'll also review your estate documents and make sure any changes comply with Colorado law.””
I felt my shoulders relax slightly.
For months, I had been telling myself I was helpless because I was growing older.
Thomas was reminding me that age did not erase my right to make decisions.
Before I left, I signed nothing new. Instead, we scheduled another appointment and made a list of documents I needed to gather.
As I stood, Thomas asked, “One more question, Maggie. Do your children know the details of your estate?””
“Some of them know pieces.””
“Have they asked you to change anything recently?””
I hesitated.
Then I remembered the conversations I'd been trying to dismiss.
Jennifer's questions about Richard's life insurance.
Michael's sudden interest in the will.
Lisa's repeated suggestions that I sell the house.
“Yes,” I said.
“They have.””
Thomas's expression became more serious.
“Write down exactly what each of them has said, as best you can remember. Don't embellish anything. Just the facts.””
I nodded.
For the first time, I began to wonder whether my loneliness had been hiding something more troubling.
That evening, I opened a notebook and wrote three names.
Jennifer.
Michael.
Lisa.
Under Jennifer's name, I recorded the conversation we'd had six weeks earlier.
She had visited on a Saturday afternoon, arriving with a designer handbag and a large takeaway coffee. She barely looked at the framed photographs on the mantel before sitting down at the kitchen island.
“Mom, have you ever thought about what happens to Dad's life insurance?”” she asked.
I had been slicing apples.
“What do you mean?””
“The policy. Is it still sitting somewhere earning next to nothing? You could probably do something smarter with that money.””
I set the knife down.
“It's part of the arrangements Richard and I made.””
Jennifer waved a hand.
“I'm just asking. You should be thinking about these things at your age.””
At your age.
I remembered those words now.
She had spent twenty minutes explaining how financial advisers helped families maximize inheritance planning. Then she left before I could persuade her to stay for lunch.
At the time, I had been pleased she cared enough to ask.
Now I wasn't so sure.
Under Michael's name, I wrote about a phone call from the previous month.
He had asked whether I'd updated my will.
“Not recently,” I had answered.
“You really should, Mom. Things change.””
“Are you worried about something?””
“No. I just don't want a mess when the time comes.””
He had then asked whether the house was still entirely in my name.
I remembered being surprised by the question.
“Of course it is. Your father and I paid off the mortgage years ago.””
“Okay, good,” he'd said.
“Just making sure.””
Then he changed the subject to a construction project.
Under Lisa's name, I recorded the conversation that had taken place over lunch.
She had arrived with a real estate brochure and placed it beside my plate.
“Look at these lovely retirement communities,” she had said.
“They have pools, activities, shuttle services. You'd never be bored.””
I smiled politely.
“I like my house.””
“But it's so much work. The stairs, the garden, the maintenance. Wouldn't it be better to move somewhere smaller?””
“Perhaps one day.””
Lisa had pushed the brochure toward me.
“And if you sold this place, you'd have so much money available. You could enjoy yourself. Travel. Maybe help the grandchildren with college.””
That last sentence had caught my attention.
“Help them how?””
She'd blinked.
“You know what I mean, Mom. You have all that equity tied up in a house.””
I'd changed the subject, unwilling to believe my daughter was calculating the value of my home while I was still sitting at the table.
Now, writing it all down, I could no longer pretend not to see the pattern.
Each conversation had begun with concern.
Each had ended with money.
I closed the notebook and carried it upstairs.
The following morning, I called a locksmith.
“Mrs. Collins?”” he asked when he arrived.
“You want every exterior lock changed?””
“Yes, please.””
“Did you lose your keys?””
“No.””
He waited for an explanation.
I gave him none.
He replaced the front-door lock, the back-door lock, and the side entrance to the garage. I changed the garage keypad and arranged to have the gate access system reprogrammed.
Afterward, a security technician installed cameras covering the driveway, the front entrance, and the side gate.
When he showed me the live feeds on my phone, I felt something I hadn't felt since Richard died.
Control.
That afternoon, I sat at my kitchen table with Thomas on speakerphone.
“We need to be careful about the estate changes,” he explained.
“If you decide to alter beneficiaries, we should document your intentions clearly. You also need to understand that changing your will doesn't automatically change a life insurance policy. We'll review the policy's actual beneficiary designation separately.””
“I understand.””
“And regarding the house, we can look at ways to protect your privacy and property, but no arrangement should be designed simply to provoke your children.””
“I don't want to provoke them. I want them to understand that this is my home.””
“Then that's where we'll begin.””
Over the next three weeks, I reviewed every important document I owned.
I confirmed account ownership, gathered insurance paperwork, and examined the language in my existing estate plan. Thomas helped me explore lawful options for distributing my assets according to my own wishes. We discussed charitable gifts, professional trustees, and safeguards against anyone attempting to exert pressure on me.
I made no decisions in anger.
Some nights, I still cried.
I would pass the staircase and see the height marks Richard had penciled beside the wall when the children were growing. I would open a kitchen drawer and find a birthday card signed in childish handwriting.
I wasn't trying to erase my children from my memories.
I was trying to stop those memories from controlling every decision I made.
Then, three weeks after my hospital stay, Jennifer called.
I was folding laundry in the living room when her name appeared on the screen.
For one foolish second, my heart lifted.
“Jennifer?””
“Hi, Mom.””
Her voice sounded unusually cheerful.
“How are you feeling?””
“Better, thank you.””
“Good. That's good.””
A pause followed.
Then she said, “Listen, I've been thinking. We really need to talk about your future.””
I set the towel in my lap.
“What about it?””
“You know, the house. Your finances. How long you can realistically keep managing everything yourself.””
“I've managed so far.””
“Mom, don't be defensive. I'm trying to help.””
I looked at the new security camera above the front door.
“What sort of help do you have in mind?””
“Well, Michael and Lisa agree that we should sit down together. Maybe after Christmas. We can look at your options and figure out what's best for everyone.””
Everyone.
Not what was best for me.
I heard papers rustling on her end.
“We could get you into a smaller place, put the house on the market, and make sure your money is invested properly. There are a lot of things we could do.””
I remained silent.
“Mom? Are you listening?””
“Yes.””
“So, you'll think about it?””
“I'll think about what I want.””
Her voice sharpened.
“Why are you making this difficult? We're your children.””
I glanced at Richard's photograph on the mantel.
“Yes,” I said.
“You are.””
She clearly expected me to say more.
When I didn't, she sighed.
“Fine. We'll talk in person.””
The call ended.
I sat quietly for several minutes, listening to the refrigerator hum in the kitchen.
Then I opened my notebook and wrote down the date and the exact words I could remember.
I wasn't angry anymore.
I was paying attention.
That night, I called Thomas.
“I'm ready to discuss the changes to my will.””
“Are you certain?””
“Yes.””
“All right, Maggie. We'll take it one step at a time.””
I looked through the window at the dark garden, where Richard used to hang Christmas lights every December.
“There's something else,” I told him.
“I don't want my children to assume they can walk into my home and make decisions for me.””
“We can address property access and security separately from your estate plan. You have every right to set reasonable boundaries in your own home.””
“Then let's do that, too.””
After we hung up, I walked to the front door and checked the new lock.
It clicked firmly into place.
For years, I had left that door unlocked when my children were expected. Even after they stopped coming regularly, I had continued leaving the porch light on, just in case one of them decided to surprise me.
Now, I turned the light off.
May you like
And went to bed.
But I had no idea that Jennifer's next call would arrive with a date, an assumption, and a plan that would make me question whether my children had ever truly understood whose house they were trying to claim.
