“Don’t Make Any Plans for January,” My Husband Told Me at New Year’s Dinner – When Midnight Struck, I Understood Why
Circling Vultures
There it was—the assumption that had poisoned my relationship with my children for years. Not “Are you okay?” or “What’s going on?”—just concern about their inheritance. I said carefully: “Your father and I haven’t made any final decisions. We’re exploring options.”
Michael countered: “Options? Mom, that company is worth at least 20 million. You can’t just explore options without consulting us. We have a right to know what’s happening to our future.”
I responded: “Your future?” The words came out sharper than I intended. “Michael, your father and I built that company from nothing. We took the risks, made the sacrifices, went without so you and Joyce could have everything you needed. The company is our life’s work, not your trust fund.”
Silence on the other end, then: “I can’t believe you’re being this selfish. Joyce was right about you.” I asked: “Right about what?”
He replied: “That you’ve changed. That you’ve gotten difficult, unreasonable. Maybe Dad’s trying to handle the sale without you because he knows you’re not thinking clearly anymore.”
The accusation hit like a physical blow. “Not thinking clearly? Michael, I’m 70 years old, not senile.” He said: “Joyce says it’s common at your age. Memory issues, confusion, poor judgment. She thinks you might need help—professional help.”
I answered: “Joyce is a dental hygienist, not a neurologist. And there’s nothing wrong with my mind.” Michael asked: “Then why won’t you support Dad in this? He sounded stressed, Mom, really stressed. Like this is killing him. If you love him, you’ll stop being stubborn and let him do what’s best for both of you.”
I hung up without responding. My hands were shaking again, but this time with rage. They’d planned this.
Joyce and Michael, probably with encouragement from Vanessa and Derek, had decided their aging parents needed to be managed. And if I resisted, they had a ready explanation: dementia, confusion, the inevitable decline of old age. I pulled up Joyce’s contact, then stopped.
Calling her would only make things worse. She and Michael had clearly been discussing me, probably for weeks. Any protest I made would be reframed as further evidence of my supposed decline.
Instead, I scrolled through my phone until I found the number for James Morgan, our company’s attorney for the past 15 years. James was 60, sharp, and had negotiated every major contract we’d signed in the last decade. He answered: “Margot, Happy New Year! What can I do for you?”
I said: “James, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me. Has Robert consulted you about selling the company?” A pause—too long. “Margot, you know I can’t discuss—”
I interrupted: “James, please. I’m not asking you to violate attorney-client privilege. I’m asking as your friend, as someone whose business you’ve protected for 15 years. Is my husband in trouble?”
Escape Plans and Fixers
Another pause. When James spoke again, his voice was careful: “Three weeks ago, Robert came to my office. He wanted to know about expedited property transfers, asset protection strategies, and international estate planning—specifically Canada.”
I asked: “Did he tell you why?” James replied: “He said you two were considering retiring abroad. But Margot, the way he asked the questions, the urgency—it didn’t feel like retirement planning. It felt like escape planning.”
I queried: “Did he mention anyone named Vincent Marcato or North Point Development?” James answered: “No. Who are they?”
I explained: “Potentially very dangerous people. James, I need you to do something for me, and I need you to not tell Robert.” He pleaded: “Margot, please—”
I continued: “I’m not asking you to betray his confidence. I’m asking you to protect us both. Can you quietly research North Point Development and Vincent Marcato? Find out who they really are, what their reputation is, whether there have been any criminal complaints or investigations.”
I added: “If Robert finds out—” James finished: “He won’t. Not from me. James, my husband is planning to uproot our entire lives in two weeks because someone has threatened us. He thinks he’s protecting me by keeping me ignorant, but I can’t protect either of us if I don’t understand what we’re facing.”
James exhaled slowly. “Give me 48 hours. I’ll see what I can find.” I said: “Thank you.” He warned: “Margot, be careful. If Robert’s scared enough to run, these people are serious.”
I knew that. I’d read the threat myself. What I didn’t know was how far they’d already gone to pressure Robert, what other threats had been made, or what other leverage they held.
That evening, Robert barely touched his dinner. He kept checking his phone, his leg bouncing under the table—a nervous habit I hadn’t seen in years. I said: “Robert, whatever’s bothering you, I want to help.”
He replied: “There’s nothing bothering me.” I insisted: “Don’t lie to me. I’ve known you for 43 years. I can see when something’s wrong.”
His jaw tightened. “Margot, sometimes a man has problems he needs to solve himself. That’s all this is. Business problems. I’m handling it.” I argued: “We built that business together. We should handle its problems together.”
His voice was final, closing the door on discussion: “Not this time.”
