My Parents Abandoned Me At 13—Unaware That 15 Years Later They’d Be Begging At My Door

Justice Served

One week after the will reading, Margaret Morrison filed a formal complaint with the Washington State Bar Association. The subject: Victor Harrington’s ethical violations.

I didn’t ask her to do it; she did it because it was her professional obligation. When an attorney witnesses another attorney violating the rules of professional conduct, reporting is required. The complaint outlined three violations.

First: Conflict of interest. Harrington had previously represented Harold Meyers and gained confidential information about his estate planning. Second: Failure to disclose. Harrington never told Sandra or Richard about his prior relationship with Harold. Third: Misrepresentation. Harrington had led his clients to believe they had a strong case when he knew, or should have known, that their legal position was fundamentally compromised.

Margaret kept me updated throughout the process. Two months after the filing, in late May 2025, the Bar Association issued its ruling. Victor Harrington was suspended from practicing law for six months. He was also fined $15,000 and required to complete additional ethics training.

Within weeks of the suspension, three of Harrington’s largest clients quietly transferred their business elsewhere. I heard through legal community gossip that his firm’s revenue dropped by roughly $200,000 that year.

Elena asked me once if I felt satisfied by Harrington’s downfall.

“I didn’t do anything to him,” I told her. “He did this to himself. I just happened to be there when the consequences caught up.”

That was the truth. I hadn’t sought revenge against Victor Harrington. I hadn’t filed the complaint. I hadn’t lobbied for his suspension. He had made his own choices—taking a case he knew was ethically compromised, lying to clients who trusted him, betting he could win through intimidation rather than merit. His career suffered because of what he chose to do. Some people build their own prisons without any help.

The Aftermath

Three weeks after the will reading, an email appeared in my inbox from [email protected]. Subject: “Please read.”

The message was longer than I expected. Sandra had never been one for written communication; she preferred phone calls where she could control the tone, interrupt, redirect.

“Diana, I know you probably won’t read this, but I need to say some things. I’ve been thinking about what happened at the will reading. I was angry and I said things I shouldn’t have. But I want you to know that I understand now that I made mistakes when you were young. I was overwhelmed. Your father and I were struggling financially. Things got away from us. I’m not asking for money. I’m asking for a chance to make things right. We’re still family, Diana. Blood doesn’t just disappear because of legal papers. I’m your mother. Nothing can change that. Can we talk? I think if we just sat down together we could work through this. I love you. I always have. Mom.”

I read the email three times. Then I called Dr. Hayes, my therapist, and read it to her over the phone.

“What do you notice about the email?” she asked.

I thought about it. “She acknowledges mistakes but doesn’t name what they were. She blames circumstances—financial struggles, being overwhelmed. She says she’s not asking for money but then pivots to working through this. And she still calls herself Mom even though she signed away that right.”

“What do you want to do?”

I took two days to write my response. It was four sentences long.

“Sandra, I’ve read your email. I forgave you a long time ago, for myself, not for you. But I don’t want a relationship with you. Please don’t contact me again.”

She didn’t reply. I felt no guilt, only clarity.