I never dreamed my own flesh and blood would drag me through the courts. When my husband passed last year, his will was plain as daythe house, the savings, the lot would come to me, and our son, Oliver, would inherit once I was gone. It was meant to keep me secure in my later years, something my husband fretted over. I never guessed that same kindness would drive a wedge between us.
Oliver had always been a decent lad, but after his father died, something shifted. He left his job, claimed he needed a «fresh start,» and when I didnt hand over cash straightaway for his new venture, bitterness took root.
One evening, he turned up and said, «Mum, that moneys rightfully mine. Dad meant for me to have it.» I tried to explain softlyit wasnt so, not yet. His father wanted him to stand on his own two feet first, to learn the value of things.
But Oliver wouldnt hear it. He called me selfish, accused me of clinging to what was his. The next week, the papers arrivedmy own boy was taking me to court over his inheritance. I sat at the kitchen table, hands shaking so hard I could barely read them. That night, I wept till I had nothing left.
The courtroom was colder than Id imaginednot just the air, but the silence between us. When Oliver walked in, he wouldnt even look at me. I kept remembering him as a little lad, how hed grip my hand in busy streets, how chuffed his father was with him. Now we stood on opposite sides like strangers.
He argued I didnt «need» the money, that itd do more good in his hands. When my turn came, I could hardly speak. All I said was that I loved my son, that this wasnt greedit was about respecting his fathers word.
When the judge finally spoke, the room froze. «The will is clear,» he said firmly. «The estate belongs to Mrs. Whitcombe until her passing. Only then does it pass to her son.»
Then he looked at us both, his tone gentler. «But Ill tell you thisyou havent just lost a case. Youre losing each other.»
That shattered something in me. I turned to Oliver. His shoulders trembled, tears streaking his face. «Im sorry, Mum,» he whispered.
I stood and reached for him, and suddenly, the courtroom vanished. It was just usmother and sonclinging tight, praying it wasnt too late to mend what was broken.
