…’the Margaret Ellis Family Trust.’ It’s been in a trust for eleven years. Your mother couldn’t sign it over even if she wanted to. Neither can you.”
I sat back in my chair and laughed out loud. Alone in my kitchen.
Eleven years ago, after my husband died, my lawyer, a sharp old woman named Ruth, sat me down and gave me some advice I didn’t want to hear. “Margaret, you’re going to be a widow with a paid-off house and two kids who will one day want it. Let’s make sure it goes where you actually want it to go, and that nobody can take it from you while you’re still in it.”
So we put the house in an irrevocable trust. I can live in it for the rest of my life. When I die, it goes to my four grandchildren, equally. Ruth is the trustee. Nobody, not me, not my son, not anybody, can sell it, mortgage it or transfer it without Ruth’s signature. And Ruth doesn’t sign anything without calling me first.
I’d mentioned it to my son, Brian, once, years ago. He obviously hadn’t been listening.
I scrolled back through the emails. The “documents we had her sign at Christmas.” My daughter-in-law, Kelly, had brought over a “holiday card list” for me to sign so she could “mail them for me.” Underneath it, she’d slipped a quitclaim deed and a power of attorney. I’d signed them all without reading. I’m seventy-six. My eyes aren’t what they were.
Neither document was worth the paper it was printed on. I didn’t own the house anymore. The trust did.
I printed every email. Then I called Ruth.
She was eighty-two now, mostly retired, and absolutely delighted. “Oh, Margaret,” she said. “This is the best phone call I’ve had all year. Leave it with me.”
Ruth sent a letter to Brian and Kelly the next week. Certified mail. It politely explained that the property was held in trust, that any documents they’d obtained from me were void, that she’d notified the real estate agent’s broker and the county recorder, and that if they attempted to file anything, she would be forced to involve the district attorney. She signed it, “With warm regards, Ruth Abernathy, Trustee.”
Brian called me that night. He said it was “all Kelly’s idea.” He said they were behind on their mortgage. He said he never meant to hurt me.
“Brian,” I said, “you hid a deed under a Christmas card list.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
I believe he’s sorry. I also changed the locks.
We see each other on holidays now. It’s polite. I’m working on it. Kelly and I don’t speak much.
Last week, my oldest granddaughter, Emma, came to visit. She’s nineteen. I showed her the trust documents and explained them, so she’d understand someday.
She read them, looked around my kitchen and said, “So when you’re gone, this is ours? All four of us?”
“When I’m gone,” I said. “Which won’t be anytime soon.”
She hugged me and said, “Good. I like it better with you in it.”
