…changes your will to leave everything to him alone. With your signature.”
My attorney, Ms. Grant, laid the form beside an old birthday card I’d sent my son years ago. The signatures were identical. Too identical. Someone had traced it.
“Real signatures are never exactly the same twice,” she said. “This one is a copy.”
I had three children. My oldest, Michael, the one who’d come with the Christmas card, had always felt he deserved more because he lived closest to me. His wife, Stacy, had been pushing him for years.
Ms. Grant suggested I call my other two children before I did anything else. I hadn’t wanted to drag them into it. I’m glad I did.
My daughter, Ellen, flew in from Denver. My youngest, Sam, drove up from Chicago. We sat in Ms. Grant’s office together while she explained what Michael and Stacy had tried to do.
Sam was furious. Ellen was quiet. Then she said something that surprised me. “Mom, Michael called me last month and asked if I thought you were ‘losing it.’ I told him you were fine. I should have told you then.”
Ms. Grant filed a formal objection to the forged form and notified the court. She then helped me sign a new estate plan, with all three of my children present, dividing everything equally. Ellen was named executor.
Michael called me crying a week later. He said Stacy had done the tracing and he hadn’t stopped her. He asked for forgiveness. I told him I’d need time.
I signed his Christmas card after all. I wrote: “Merry Christmas. I love you. I’ll always sign my own name.” He keeps it on his fridge, he says. Stacy took it down. He put it back up.
