My Daughter Said I’d Get NOTHING From My Ex-Husband’s $220M Will — Lawyer: She Gets $25, You Inhe…

The Phone Call from the Past

The afternoon sun filtered through the dusty window of my small office, catching the dust motes dancing above my desk. I was reconciling a local bakery’s quarterly taxes when my phone buzzed.

Sarah’s name flashed on the screen. My daughter. I hadn’t heard from her in three years.

“He’s dead.”

Her voice was flat, business-like. No preamble, no emotion, just two words delivered like she was closing a contract.

“Richard.”

My hand stilled over the keyboard.

“The funeral’s Thursday. Will reading Friday at 2:00. Harrison and Associates downtown. I assume you’ll want to be there.”

There was something in her tone: anticipation, triumph, though I can’t imagine why.

“Dad made his feelings about you perfectly clear before he died.”

The line went dead before I could respond.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at the phone. Twenty-two years.

Twenty-two years since the scandal. Twenty-two years since I’d lost everything.

Twenty-two years since my daughter looked at me with anything other than contempt. Richard Thornton, once my husband, my business partner, my best friend.

The Sacrifice and the Scandal

We’d built Thornton Financial Services from nothing, working 18-hour days in a cramped office not much bigger than the one I sat in now.

By the time Sarah was in high school, we’d grown to 200 employees and managed portfolios worth over half a billion dollars.

Then came that September morning when the FBI walked into my corner office on the 42nd floor.

I could still remember the weight of the handcuffs, the perp walk past my stunned employees, the flash of cameras.

The headlines read: CFO Margaret Thornton arrested for embezzlement; $2.3 million missing.

I took the fall. I signed the confession.

I served 18 months in federal prison while Richard divorced me, kept full custody of Sarah, and rebuilt the company’s reputation.

He told our daughter I’d betrayed everything we’d built out of greed. That I’d stolen from our clients.

That I’d destroyed our family. Sarah believed him.

Why wouldn’t she? She was 16, devastated, and needed someone to blame.

Better to hate one parent than lose faith in both.

What she didn’t know, what no one knew, was that Richard had taken that money not out of greed but desperation.

He’d made a series of catastrophic trades trying to recoup losses during the market crash.

When the shortfall was discovered, he’d panicked.

His heart condition was already severe. The stress alone could have killed him.

So I made a choice. I was healthy, I was strong, and I could survive prison.

Richard couldn’t survive the investigation, the trial, and the scandal. And Sarah needed at least one parent.

“Take care of her.”

I’d whispered to him the night before my sentencing.

“That’s all I ask.”

He’d wept, but he’d agreed.

The Ghost at the Feast

After my release, I started over. A tiny accounting firm in a strip mall, 40 miles outside the city.

I filed taxes, balanced small business books, and lived in a modest apartment above a hardware store.

I sent Sarah cards on her birthday and holidays, though she never responded.

I watched from afar as she graduated law school and joined a prestigious corporate firm.

She became exactly the kind of ruthless, ambitious woman the Thornton name demanded. And now, Richard was dead.

Thursday’s funeral was held at St. Michael’s Cathedral. I stood in the back, behind 300 mourners in expensive black suits.

Sarah sat in the front pew, her blonde hair swept into a perfect chignon, her Chanel suit immaculate.

She didn’t turn around once.

The eulogies painted Richard as a titan of industry, a devoted father, and a man who’d rebuilt his company from the ashes of betrayal.

They spoke of his integrity, his vision, and his generosity. No one mentioned me.

I was the ghost at the feast. The disgraced ex-wife who’d stolen and lied.

I left before the recession, before Sarah could see me and feel obligated to acknowledge my presence.

Friday arrived, cold and gray, threatening November rain.

Harrison and Associates occupied the top floor of a glass tower in the financial district.

I’d been here before, years ago, when Richard and I were signing partnership agreements and drafting wills.

I took the elevator to the 48th floor, my sensible flats soundless on the marble.

The Reading of the Will

The receptionist looked at me with barely concealed surprise when I gave my name.

“Mrs. Thornton is already in the conference room.”

She said carefully.

“You can go right in.”

The conference room overlooked the city, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the skyline Richard had conquered.

Sarah sat at the head of the long mahogany table, exactly where Richard would have sat.

She wore a dove-gray Tom Ford suit that probably cost more than I made in three months.

Her nails were perfect, her makeup was flawless. She looked like a woman ready to claim an empire.

She glanced up when I entered, her blue eyes cold.

“Margaret.”

Not mom, not mother, just my name spoken like an accusation.

“Sarah.”

I took a seat near the door, as far from her as possible. An afterthought, an unwelcome guest.

She returned to her phone, typing rapidly. We sat in silence for ten minutes before footsteps echoed in the hallway.

James Harrison entered, carrying a leather portfolio that looked heavy with documents.

He was in his 70s now, silver-haired and distinguished.

He’d been our family attorney for 30 years. He’d represented me during my plea bargain.

His eyes met mine briefly, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Ladies. Thank you for being here. I know this is difficult.”

He said, taking a seat.

Sarah set down her phone with a crisp click.

“Let’s just get this over with, James. I have a 4:00 at the office.”

“Of course.”