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 Competency Hearing
December 5th. The process server arrived at 9:00 a.m. Young woman, professional demeanor. “Walter Ashford?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been served.”
The papers were thick. Petition for Guardianship and Conservatorship. Filed by my son and daughter-in-law. Grounds: Advanced age affecting judgment, erratic financial decisions, vulnerability to exploitation.
I called Sandra. She was already on her way. “They actually did it.” She spread the papers across my kitchen table. “I underestimated their greed, or they overestimated their case.”
She flipped pages. “You need to undergo a competency evaluation. Should be simple. You’re sharp.”
“When’s the hearing?”
“December 20th. Two weeks to prove I’m not senile.”
“Two weeks to prove your son is lying.”
The evaluation took three hours. Dr. Marcus Webb, geriatric psychiatrist. Soft voice, sharp eyes.
“Tell me about the watch sale, Mr. Ashford.”
“I sold a family heirloom at fair market value after the intended recipient rejected it.”
“Your son says it was impulsive.”
“I planned it for three weeks. Documented everything. Worked with Sotheby’s authentication process. That’s the opposite of impulsive.”
He made notes. “What about your current financial management?”
I handed him my records: accounts, investments, monthly expenses. Organized, categorized, balanced. “You’re quite thorough.”
“40 years of detailed documentation. Professional requirement became personal habit.”
More questions. Cognitive tests, memory exercises, clock drawings, word associations. Three hours. I passed everything.
“Mr. Ashford, you’re demonstrably competent.” Doctor Webb closed his folder. “Your son’s petition has no medical basis.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
“You’ll have my full report within 48 hours.”
December 15th. The local news picked up the story. Small piece, community interest section: Portland Antiques Expert Faces Competency Challenge From Family. Sandra called, concerned. “The media coverage could complicate things.”
“Could help things. Public record now. Everyone sees what they’re doing.”
She paused. “There’s been another development.”
“What kind?”
“Your son hired a private investigator. He’s been asking questions about your business dealings, past sales, client relationships. Looking for what?”
“Anything that makes you look unstable or unethical.”
“He won’t find anything.”
“I know. But the fact that he’s looking tells us something. Tells us he’s desperate.”
“Desperate people do desperate things, Walter. Watch your back.”
December 18th, two days before the hearing. My doorbell rang evening, unexpected. Through the peephole: my daughter Lydia. Boston. Eight years since she’d visited. I opened the door.
“Hi, Dad.” She looked tired. Red-eye flight, probably. Small suitcase.
“Sandra called me. Told me what’s happening.”
“She shouldn’t have.”
“I’m glad she did.” Lydia stepped inside. “I had no idea things had gotten this bad with Jean.”
“Things have been bad for years. This is just the first time it’s become legal.”
We sat in my living room. The display case caught her eye. “Your collection,” she smiled slightly. “Real Mom used to talk about how you’d spend hours in here after dinner, polishing, examining.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything, Dad. I just chose not to be here for it.”
“Why?”
“Because watching you love objects more than people was too hard.”
The words hit. Deserved, probably. “Lydia, I never—”
“It doesn’t matter now.” She cut me off. “What matters is Jean trying to steal your life. That’s not okay.”
“He’s your brother.”
“He’s a vulture. Always has been. Difference is, now he has legal standing to act on it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I suggest you let me help.” She pulled out her laptop. “I’m a forensic accountant, Dad. I find hidden money for a living. Let me find where Jean’s hidden his.”
“His money?”
“His debts. His lies. Whatever he’s not telling you. There’s always something.”
She worked until midnight. I made coffee, watched her fingers fly across keyboards. “Found it.”
“Found what?”
“Jean’s in worse trouble than you knew. Second mortgage on their house, $180,000. Three credit cards maxed. Total debt approximately $340,000.”
“$340,000?”
“And they’ve been making minimum payments for 18 months. Interest alone is destroying them. That’s why they need my money.”
“That’s why they need your money now.” She looked up. “They’re drowning, Dad. And they see your collection as a life raft.”
December 20th. Hearing day. Multnomah County Courthouse. Judge Patricia Delgado: gray hair, sharp eyes, no-nonsense reputation. My son sat across the aisle with his lawyer, Morton Fischer: aggressive reputation, cheap tactics.
Sandra presented Dr. Webb’s evaluation: competency confirmed, no cognitive impairment detected. Financial records demonstrating consistent, responsible management.
Morton Fischer presented his case: erratic behavior, sudden sale of family heirloom, signs of isolation and paranoia.
Judge Delgado listened, took notes, asked questions. “Mr. Ashford, why did you sell the watch without consulting family?”
“I tried to give it to my son. He rejected it. Called it worthless junk. Suggested I donate it to charity.”
“Is that accurate, Mr. Ashford?” She looked at my son.
He hesitated. “I may have said something like that, but I didn’t mean—”
“You either said it or you didn’t.”
“I said it.”
“And now you’re suing your father because he took you at your word?”
“Your Honor,” Morton Fischer stood.
“Sit down, Mr. Fischer.” The judge’s voice cut. “I’ve reviewed the evidence. I’ve read Dr. Webb’s evaluation. I’ve examined 40 years of Mr. Ashford’s financial records.” She paused, let the silence build. “This petition is without merit. Mr. Walter Ashford is demonstrably competent to manage his own affairs. The sale of the pocket watch was legal, documented, and entirely within his rights as owner.”
She looked directly at my son. “Mr. Ashford, I’m going to give you some free advice. Your father is not your piggy bank. His assets are not your inheritance until he chooses to make them so. If you continue this pattern of harassment, there will be consequences. Petition denied. Court adjourned.”
The gavel fell. Sharp crack. Final.
My son’s face went through several colors: white, red, something approaching purple. “This isn’t over,” he hissed as he passed me.
“Yes, it is.”
But of course, it wasn’t.
