Chapter 7: The Second Daughter in My Father's Will
“Olivia Bennett.””
Alexander's voice was barely above a whisper.
My sister stared at him.
“What?””
He turned the laptop toward us.
“The second beneficiary named in your father's original agreement is Olivia Bennett.””
Nobody spoke.
I looked at the document again.
My father's handwriting was unmistakable. Beneath the paragraph describing the protected design trust, there were two names.
Charlotte Bennett.
Olivia Bennett.
I felt something twist inside my chest.
“Why would Dad put Olivia's name on the agreement?””
My mother immediately stepped forward.
“Because he loved both his daughters. He wanted to provide for both of you.””
I looked at her.
“Then why did you hide it?””
She didn't answer.
Alexander enlarged the document.
“There's a clause here that needs clarification. The second beneficiary was entitled to a percentage of the original business assets, but the intellectual property created independently by Charlotte remained exclusively hers.””
I frowned.
“So Olivia was entitled to part of the business?””
“Potentially. Depending on the final estate arrangements.””
My mother nodded quickly.
“Exactly. Your father wanted us to share everything.””
I shook my head.
“Then why did you forge my signature?””
Her expression hardened.
“I never forged anything.””
Alexander pointed to the second agreement.
“Your signature appears on a transfer document that contradicts the original trust. We will need handwriting verification.””
My mother folded her arms.
“Do whatever you want.””
Olivia was staring at the screen.
“Mom, you told me Dad left nothing for us.””
“I was protecting you.””
“From what?””
“From unnecessary complications!””
Olivia laughed bitterly.
“You let me believe Charlotte was just the family breadwinner. You told me she didn't care about fashion anymore.””
My mother looked at her sharply.
“Because you needed to concentrate on your future!””
I watched them argue.
For years, I had imagined that one day my mother might apologize. I had imagined her sitting beside me in the old tailoring shop, admitting that she had been wrong.
But now I was beginning to understand something.
My mother hadn't simply favored Olivia.
She had constructed an entire version of our family in which I was expected to sacrifice, Olivia was expected to succeed, and every uncomfortable truth was buried.
Alexander closed the laptop.
“There's only one way to resolve this. We need the original estate records.””
“Where are they?”” I asked.
My mother looked away.
“Somewhere safe.””
I stood.
“Where?””
She remained silent.
Olivia suddenly spoke.
“The storage unit.””
My mother turned toward her.
“Olivia!””
“You told me to keep the boxes there.””
Alexander leaned forward.
“What storage unit?””
Olivia wiped her eyes.
“There's a unit outside Boston. Mom rented it after Dad died. She said it contained old business records and things we didn't need.””
I looked at my mother.
“You still have Dad's papers?””
She nodded reluctantly.
“Some of them.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because you would have started asking questions.””
I felt sick.
Alexander stood.
“Charlotte, I suggest we retrieve those records with appropriate documentation. If there are original contracts, they may be essential.””
My mother shook her head.
“You can't just take my belongings!””
“Then you can accompany us.””
For the first time, she didn't argue.
An hour later, we were standing outside a storage facility on the outskirts of Boston.
The sky had turned gray, and a cold wind pushed across the parking lot.
My mother unlocked unit 214.
The metal door rattled upward.
Inside were cardboard boxes, old photographs, broken furniture, and several of my father's sewing machines.
I stopped breathing.
There they were.
The machines I had believed were sold years ago.
The old Singer with the chipped wooden table.
The industrial embroidery machine.
The small machine my father had used to teach me how to sew straight lines.
I walked toward them.
“Mom…”
She looked uncomfortable.
“I couldn't sell everything.””
I touched the wooden table.
My father's initials were still carved into the corner.
I remembered him standing beside me, guiding my hands.
“Don't fight the fabric, Charlie. Listen to it.””
I closed my eyes.
Then I noticed a wooden box beneath the embroidery machine.
It had a brass lock.
My mother moved quickly.
“Leave that alone.””
I turned.
“What's inside?””
“Old business documents.””
“Then why can't I see them?””
“Because they're private!””
Alexander stepped between us.
“Margaret, if these records relate to the estate, they need to be preserved.””
My mother reluctantly handed him a key.
He opened the box.
Inside were several folders, a leather-bound notebook, and a sealed envelope.
My name was written across the envelope.
This time, the handwriting was not my father's.
It was Edward Whitmore's.
Alexander looked surprised.
“My grandfather's handwriting.””
He opened it carefully.
The letter was dated four years earlier.
To Charlotte Bennett,
If you are reading this, then the original arrangement between your father and me has not been properly honored.
My heart began racing.
Alexander continued reading.
Your father trusted me to protect the future of his daughters. He believed that his wife would preserve the family business and that both girls would receive what was promised.
He paused.
Then he read the next paragraph.
However, I discovered that certain documents had been altered after his death. I confronted Margaret about the discrepancies. She insisted that everything had been handled according to the family's wishes.
My mother sat down heavily.
Alexander continued.
I did not believe her.
The room became silent.
I therefore established a separate educational and professional development fund for both daughters. The fund was intended to provide Olivia with support for her scientific education and Charlotte with funding for her fashion education.
I stared at the letter.
My father had not forgotten my dream.
Neither had Edward Whitmore.
The letter continued.
Charlotte's portion was to be released when she presented her original designs to the appointed trustee. Olivia's portion was to be released upon verification of her academic achievements.
I looked at Alexander.
“Was there really a fund?””
He nodded slowly.
“Yes.””
My mother began shaking her head.
“Edward misunderstood everything.””
Alexander ignored her.
He turned another page.
The final paragraph contained a handwritten note.
The trustee is my grandson, Alexander Whitmore. He has been instructed to locate both beneficiaries and verify their identities before releasing the remaining funds.
Alexander stopped reading.
I stared at him.
“You?””
He nodded.
“My grandfather appointed me before he died.””
Olivia looked at him in disbelief.
“You knew?””
“No. I knew there was an unresolved Bennett family trust, but I didn't know the beneficiaries or the full circumstances until today.””
He examined the leather notebook.
Then he opened it to a page marked with a red ribbon.
There were two columns.
One contained payments made toward Olivia's education.
The other contained payments reserved for my design career.
My column was almost untouched.
Beside it was a balance.
$187,400.
I felt my knees weaken.
My mother had told me there was no money for fashion school.
She had told me to be realistic.
She had watched me work two jobs while an entire fund intended for my future sat untouched.
I turned toward her.
“Did you know?””
She didn't answer.
“Mom. Did you know about the fund?””
Her lips trembled.
“I knew Edward had made arrangements.””
“And you never told me?””
“You were already working. Olivia needed the money more urgently.””
I stared at her.
“You stole six years from me.””
“I was trying to keep this family together!””
“No,” I whispered.
“You were trying to keep me where you wanted me.””
Alexander closed the notebook.
“There is one more document.””
He removed a folded page from the back cover.
It was a formal trustee instruction.
The date was two months before Edward's death.
The final paragraph read:
If either beneficiary has been deprived of their rightful educational or professional support, the trustee must investigate all transactions and restore the affected funds before any further distribution.
Alexander looked at Olivia.
Then at my mother.
“I'm afraid this changes everything.””
My mother stood abruptly.
“You can't give Charlotte all that money!””
Alexander's expression became unreadable.
“It's not my money to give. It's a trust obligation.””
He looked at me.
“And Charlotte, there's something else. Your father didn't simply leave you the rights to his designs.””
He opened the notebook to another page.
“He left you the controlling interest in a company that was supposed to be established using those designs.””
I stared at the name written across the page.
*Bennett Whitmore Design House.*
But beneath it was another entry.
The company had never been dissolved.
May you like
It had been quietly transferred.
And the person listed as its managing director was Margaret Bennett.
