He told everyone he had made some smart investments. He was so generous about it, too. Every single year, he invited the entire family down for Thanksgiving. We spent two decades building memories there. We ate turkey on the wooden deck, watched the sunset over the Gulf, and congratulated David on his success.
“David is the anchor of this family,” my aunt Linda used to say every year as we sat on the beach. “Your grandfather would be so proud of how he looks out for us.” I believed her. We all did. But then my son, Toby, turned eighteen last month. Toby is a good kid. He didn’t want a fancy car or a big party. He had been accepted into a local electrical apprenticeship program, and he needed eight thousand dollars for his tools, his books, and his first-year fees.
“Mom,” he asked me one morning while we were eating breakfast at the kitchen table. “Do you think I could get my trust money now? It would pay for everything. I wouldn’t have to take out a loan.” “Of course,” I smiled, patting his hand. “That’s exactly what your grandfather wanted it for.”
I called Uncle David that afternoon. I figured it would be a five-minute conversation. “Hey, David,” I said when he answered. “Toby just turned eighteen. He’s starting his trade school program, and we need to get his ten thousand dollar check from the trust.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Ellen,” David said, his voice unusually soft. “I’m glad Toby is doing well. But there’s a bit of a problem with the trust.” “What kind of a problem?” I asked, a small knot forming in my stomach. “The money isn’t there,” he said. “What do you mean it isn’t there?” I laughed, thinking it was some kind of joke. “There should be over four hundred thousand dollars in that account by now with the interest.” “It’s empty, Ellen,” David said, his tone turning cold and defensive. “Market fluctuations. Bad investments. The money is gone. I did my best, but these things happen.” My heart didn’t stop. My stomach just went completely numb. I remember staring at the pattern on my kitchen linoleum, unable to breathe. “You’re telling me my son gets nothing?” I whispered. “What about the other younger cousins? What about Leo and Lily?” “They get nothing,” David said. “It’s a shame, but that’s life. Don’t make a big deal out of this, Ellen. It’s just money.” He hung up. I sat there for twenty minutes. Then I called Frank Harris. Frank is a semi-retired lawyer who used to play golf with my grandfather. He’s seventy-five years old, and he doesn’t take any nonsense. “Frank,” I said, my voice cracking. “David says the trust is empty.” “That’s impossible,” Frank said immediately. “Arthur was conservative with that money. It was locked in treasury bonds and blue-chip funds. Unless someone dug it out, it’s still there.” It took us three weeks to get the court order. Since David was the trustee, we had to prove there was a suspicion of fiduciary neglect just to look at the bank records. When the thick stack of papers finally arrived at Frank’s office, we sat down with two cups of black coffee and started reading.
