My Son Called My 1892 Patek Philippe Heirloom “Worthless Junk” And Demanded Cash Instead. So I Sold It At Auction For $87,000 And Cut Him Off. Now He’s Suing Me For “Mental Incompetence.” Am I The Jerk?
The Break-In Investigation
November 23rd. Security footage from Tuesday showed my son entering my house alone using his key. 2:00 p.m. I was at the senior center teaching a watchmaking basics class. He went straight to my workshop. Systematic. Opening drawers, checking files, looking for something. He found the insurance folder: documentation of my collection. 12 watches, appraised values, photos, provenance records.
His hands shook as he photographed each page. Then he moved to the display case, stood there for 10 minutes. I could almost hear him calculating, counting, salivating. He left without touching anything. Smart enough to know I’d notice.
That night, his call. “Dad, I’ve been thinking about the watch situation. About everything.”
“Have you?”
“We got off on the wrong foot, Meredith and I. We want to make things right.”
“Make things right how?”
“Let us take you to dinner. Nice place. Talk things through. Father and son.”
“When?”
“Saturday? That new steakhouse on the river?”
“Fine.”
His voice brightened, eager. “Great, Dad. Really great. This will be good, you’ll see.”
I saw already. The footage told me everything I needed to know.
Dinner was expensive: prime rib, good wine, attentive service. My son paid, first time in years. Meredith wore her best dress, smiled constantly, performed concern.
“Dad, tell us about your collection.” My son cut his steak. “We never really talked about it.”
“How did you get started?”
“40 years in the business. You accumulate pieces.”
“The display case in your living room,” he chewed thoughtfully. “How many watches is that?”
“12. All valuable?”
“Some more than others.”
Meredith leaned in. “They must be worth a lot. As a collection.”
“They’re worth what collectors will pay. Like the pocket watch.” She sipped wine. “That went for $87,000. Pretty good for one piece.”
“That was an exceptional piece.”
“Are any others exceptional?”
I set down my fork, looked at both of them. Really looked. “What are you actually asking?”
My son shifted. “We’re just interested, Dad. In your life, your passions.”
“You’ve never been interested before.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s completely true. 40 years in business, you never once visited my shop. Never asked about a single piece I worked on. Now suddenly you’re curious about values.”
“Dad, the pocket watch opened your eyes, didn’t it? Now you’re wondering what else I have that might be worth something.”
Meredith’s performance cracked just slightly. “We’re family, Walter. Is it wrong to know what assets exist?”
“Assets? For planning purposes?”
“Estate planning.”
“Whose estate? I’m not dead yet.”
My son’s face flushed. “Nobody said you were. You’re planning for it though. Calculating. Making lists.”
“That’s not—”
“I saw the security footage.”
Silence, total. The restaurant noise seemed to disappear.
“What footage?”
“You. In my workshop Tuesday. Going through my files. Photographing my insurance documents.”
My son’s face went through stages: pale, red, pale again. “I can explain.”
“Please don’t.”
“I was worried about you. Making sure things were organized.”
“You were counting inventory.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.” Meredith stood. “This dinner was a mistake.”
“Sit down.”
She sat.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” I kept my voice level. 40 years of difficult clients. “I’m changing my locks tomorrow. Your key access is revoked. Any future visits will be scheduled in advance and supervised.”
“Supervised? I’m your son.”
“You’re also the person who called my grandfather’s watch worthless junk and then ransacked my files looking for more valuable junk.”
“We weren’t ransacking.”
“I have video. Would you like to see it?”
No response.
“I’m also updating my will. You should know that your inheritance situation is being restructured.”
“Restructured how?”
“That’s between me and my attorney.”
“Dad, this is crazy,” Meredith’s voice rose. “You can’t just—”
“I can do whatever I want with my property. That’s literally what ownership means.”
“We’ll contest it.” My son’s jaw tightened. “If you’re making decisions based on paranoia.”
“Paranoia?” I laughed. “You broke into my house, photographed my financial documents, and you’re calling me paranoid?”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m thinking more clearly than I have in years.”
“Maybe a doctor should determine that.”
And there it was. The threat, finally explicit. I stood, dropped cash on the table. “Pursue that. See how it goes for you.”
I walked out. Didn’t look back.
