Page 89 of Dr. Single Dad

“Mr. Morgan.”

“Please call me Fred,” he says.

We have this to-and-fro at the start of all our conversations. People introduced to me by my parents always felt slightly at arm’s length, as if they were far more important than me and I should be honored just to be meeting them. I can’t shake that feeling with Mr. Morgan.

I smile and follow him into his office, making a mental note not to refer to him by any name at all.

“So,” he says, leaning over his desk from his chair behind it. I take the seat opposite. “We have a turn of events not even I could have predicted.”

I try to conceal my sigh. I didn’t want to come here today. There was a reason I hadn’t given Mr. Morgan my new address. I wanted to move on from trying to chase after my dead parents’ stolen estate. It’s gone. I’ve lived years without it. I can live the rest of my life that way too.

Mr. Morgan’s periodic summons over the last few years have always been precipitated by a small change in the law that made it easier to take my uncle to court. None of it did any good, because my uncle doesn’t play by the rules. The law doesn’t matter to him. The only reason I’ve come along today is to officially tell Mr. Morgan he should close the file.

“Your uncle is dead,” Mr. Morgan announces.

“Dead?” I ask.

“Dead,” he says again with a small nod. “As in not alive. Huge heart attack apparently. I was contacted by his lawyers a weekor so ago.” He says it like he’s telling me a new cake shop has opened on the corner and I should try the lemon drizzle.

I feel numb—not because I’m sad about my uncle’s death. How could I be? But because he was my last connection to my parents. It’s not them I miss, but what they should have been. Who they should have been to me, and it’s almost as if I miss the grief I should be feeling right now.

“Right,” I say. “What about my parents’ estate?”

He chuckles, which seems a little inappropriate, even though my uncle was a thief and a liar. “It means you get it all. Apparently, his investments since your parents’ deaths have done quite well and the estate has grown during the time he’s…been in control of it. It’s now worth an estimated sixty million in total.”

“So it’s still…he didn’t lose it all?” That had been a theory at one time—that he couldn’t sign over the trust because he’d borrowed against my parents’ assets and lost the money.

“Not from what I understand from his lawyers. There’s no more fighting to get back what’s yours. Even if there was a dispute around the ownership of assets, as he has alleged from time to time, he’s left it to you in any event. The terms of his will mirror your parents’, so Eddie’s and Dylan’s shares will be held on trust until they turn twenty-five. It doesn’t matter if we say you’re receiving what you should have done under your parents’ will or what your uncle has left you. That means you can stop spending money on lawyers. Everything’s settled.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why would he take everything from us and then give it back?”

“He obviously wanted the money while he was alive, but when he died, knew he should do the right thing.”

I’m not sure handing back what you’ve stolen after you’re dead counts as the right thing.

“Maybe he had a crisis of conscience. Or perhaps this was always his plan. I say, don’t worry about the why and enjoy your new wealth. It’s been a long time coming.”

I zone out what Mr. Morgan is saying as he continues to talk. My brain is completely zeroed in on the bomb he just dropped. I’m about to inherit over twenty million pounds. And on top of that, my brother and sister are looked after.

“It can all be liquidized if that’s what you choose,” Mr. Morgan says as I tune back into him. “It will be up to the three of you to decide how to divide and hold it. I’ll introduce you to some financial experts—wealth managers, if you will.”

I nod. “Right, yes, that sounds good.”

“Do you think the three of you will want to keep the family town house in Belgravia? I imagine that’s deeply sentimental to you, given your parents’ passing.”

“Not at all,” I reply.

It’s not as if I was particularly unhappy there—my brother and sister brought me tremendous joy. Our nannies and housekeepers were kind. But there’s no sentiment attached to that building for me, and I can’t imagine Dylan and Eddie will feel differently.

“Unless it’s a good investment, I think the three of us will be happy to sell.” I scramble for my phone. “I should call Dylan and Eddie.” I start to bring up our group chat and pause. “You’re sure this is happening and you’ve not made a mistake?”

“I’m sure. Your uncle wasn’t married, had no dependents. There’s no one challenging the will. Finally, everything we’ve been trying to achieve is resolved. It’s my pleasure to tell you that you are now a very wealthy woman.”

I would happily trade it all to have had parents who spent time with me, knew me, loved me.

Maybe in another lifetime. But in this lifetime, this inheritance buys freedom for the three of us.

Even though both Dylan and Eddie told me of their desire to be independent and for me to focus on myself, this inheritance severs the last strand of doubt about their ability to support themselves financially. There’s not a grain of uncertainty anymore. I definitely don’t need a rainy day fund for any of us. All I can give my brother and sister now is my emotional support, my time, and my unending love.

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