Chapter 4 - THE GUARDIANSHIP PETITION WITH MY NAME ON IT
The first time I saw the guardianship petition, I cried in Harriet Lowe’s office.
Not gracefully.
Not in one dignified tear.
I put both hands over my face and made a sound I had spent thirty years training myself not to make in front of people.
Harriet said nothing.
That helped.
The petition was dated February 1996.
I had been four.
Petitioner:
Margaret Avery.
Minor:
Ethan James Cole.
Relationship:
Close family friend of deceased mother.
Requested placement:
Kinship-equivalent guardianship.
There was a statement from my mother written six months before she died.
If I become unable to care for Ethan, I want Margaret Avery contacted before any long-term placement is made. She knows him. He knows her. I trust her.
I stared.
“I knew her?”
Harriet nodded.
“You stayed with Margaret some weekends.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You were very young.”
I turned pages.
Photographs.
Margaret’s house.
A small guest bedroom prepared for me.
A dinosaur comforter.
A toy fire truck.
My name written on a cardboard box.
My chest hurt.
“Why didn’t this happen?”
Harriet pointed.
Margaret had been hospitalized for emergency surgery two weeks after my mother’s death.
Complications from gallbladder surgery.
Not cancer.
Not incapacity.
Bad timing.
The state placed me temporarily with foster parents.
Margaret’s petition remained open.
Three months later, her doctor cleared her.
She asked to resume.
Then came a letter from the county family office.
The petition was no longer necessary because paternal relatives had been located.
Later, the 2003 letter said I had been permanently adopted by them.
Two lies supporting each other.
“Who sent the first letter?”
“That is what we’re investigating.”
“Richard?”
“Possibly.”
“He was twenty-six.”
“And working as office manager for his father’s law practice.”
Thomas Avery.
Margaret’s older brother.
Her longtime attorney before Harriet.
“Why would he care?”
Harriet looked at me.
“Estate.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
“Margaret had no children.”
“So?”
“Her brother and then Richard were expected to inherit a significant portion.”
“How significant?”
Harriet gave me a look.
“I thought I wasn’t asking about money.”
“I’m asking motive.”
Fair distinction.
“Margaret was not extraordinarily wealthy. But she owned a home in Cape Elizabeth, a cottage near Pemaquid, investments, and inherited land.”
“Richard thought a four-year-old would take it?”
“People have done worse over less.”
I stared at the petition.
“Did Margaret plan to adopt me?”
“She considered it.”
“Did she tell Richard?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Harriet opened an old estate-planning memo.
Thomas Avery’s handwriting.
Margaret considering long-term guardianship/adoption of Leah Cole’s child. Advised her to delay estate changes until placement resolved.
Reasonable.
Then beneath it, another note.
Richard strongly opposed. Concerned Margaret is acting from grief.
I laughed bitterly.
“Concerned.”
Harriet said nothing.
That afternoon, Margaret worsened.
Fluid around her lungs.
More oxygen.
She still asked whether I had read the petition.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I hate everybody.”
“Healthy.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I sat beside her.
“You had a room for me.”
“Yes.”
“What color?”
“Yellow.”
“Why?”
“You liked yellow trucks.”
“I liked fire trucks.”
“You liked every truck.”
I looked away.
“I don’t remember your house.”
“That may be mercy. The wallpaper was terrible.”
“Margaret.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you keep fighting?”
She closed her eyes.
“Because Thomas told me I would confuse you.”
“Your brother.”
“Yes.”
“Did you trust him?”
“With everything.”
“And Richard?”
“Back then? Mostly.”
“So they both told you to stop.”
“Yes.”
“And you did.”
“Yes.”
That answer continued to hurt.
I had wanted Richard to be the reason.
A villain solved too much.
Margaret still made a choice.
She still accepted a letter instead of finding me.
“I need you to understand something.”
She looked at me.
“I can’t forgive you because you’re dying.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I ever will.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not marrying you because you wanted to be my mother thirty years ago.”
Margaret’s mouth twitched.
“That would be an unfortunate basis for marriage.”
I laughed despite myself.
She smiled.
Then her hand moved toward the canvas bag.
“Open the green folder.”
Inside were bank records.
Not foster records.
Recent.
Transfers from Margaret’s investment account.
$42,000.
$28,000.
$65,000.
$31,500.
Recipient:
Avery Wealth Management.
Richard’s company.
“What are these?”
“Money Richard said he was moving for tax planning.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Where did it go?”
“That is why Harriet is looking.”
“How much?”
Margaret’s voice became quiet.
“Two hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I revoked his financial power two months ago.”
“Did he know?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is he bringing bank paperwork to your bed?”
Her eyes hardened.
“Because he is trying to restore access before I die.”
I thought of Richard’s folder.
Updated authorization.
Capacity attack.
Marriage accusation.
Everything fit differently now.
“Why?”
Margaret looked toward the canvas bag.
“Because the transfer records are not the worst thing in there.”
“What is?”
“An original deed.”
“To what?”
“The Pemaquid cottage.”
“What about it?”
Margaret’s breathing became rough.
I called the nurse.
Before she entered, Margaret caught my wrist.
“Richard thinks I signed it over to him.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then why does he think that?”
Margaret’s eyes held mine.
“Because he has a deed with my signature.”
The nurse entered.
I stood.
My skin had gone cold.
Margaret had not merely discovered money missing.
Somebody had a document claiming she gave away her property.
May you like
And she said the signature was not hers.
---
