Chapter 4 - EXECUTOR
My brother had authority.
Real authority.
As executor, he could collect Dad’s estate assets.
Pay valid debts.
Handle taxes.
Preserve property.
Continue business operations temporarily.
That did not mean he owned the estate.
Naomi repeated that until I stopped using phrases like:
He controls everything.
“He administers,” she said.
“Words.”
“Words become expensive when families confuse them.”
We filed a formal request for inventory and accounting.
My brother resisted.
Not completely.
He produced hundreds of pages.
Bank statements.
Property-sale documents.
Tax payments.
Funeral costs.
Business valuation.
Dad’s home had sold for $740,000.
Mortgage and costs reduced proceeds.
Investment accounts totaled around $1.1 million.
Some passed outside probate.
Norwood Woodworks had been valued at $5.8 million at Dad’s death.
My brother claimed Dad’s sixty-percent interest should be discounted heavily because:
Private company.
Key-person dependency.
Debt.
Minority marketability after restructuring.
The estate accounting valued Dad’s interest at $2.4 million.
Possible.
Not obviously ridiculous.
Dad’s will divided residue equally between my brother and me.
So why was I being offered only $240,000?
Because my brother’s accounting claimed I owed the estate $690,000.
I laughed when I saw it.
“For what?”
Advances.
Loans.
Business separation adjustment.
Dad had given me money over the years.
Some loans.
Some gifts.
Some project reimbursements.
My brother treated most as advances against inheritance.
Documentation was inconsistent.
Naomi said:
“Do not assume all false.”
“I know.”
We reviewed.
One $120,000 promissory note existed.
My signature.
Valid.
I had borrowed it to start my construction company.
I had repaid $80,000.
Forty outstanding.
Fine.
Another claimed advance:
$180,000.
The separation payment.
My brother treated that as an estate advance even though Dad was alive and company paid it.
Interesting.
Then:
$210,000 “equity redemption benefit.”
Same transaction counted again in another section.
Potential double-count.
Then smaller items.
Some legitimate.
Some nonsense.
The numbers needed forensic accounting.
No instant theft conclusion.
The inheritance settlement looked designed to make me tired enough to accept.
Then I asked for access to the old workshop.
Denied.
Reason:
Active commercial operations and confidential records.
Naomi requested supervised access solely to identify what key 214 opened.
My brother’s attorney offered a compromise.
Turn over the key.
They would locate the lock and report contents.
I laughed.
“No.”
Naomi didn’t.
She wrote:
Independent neutral inspection.
That went to court.
Before the hearing, my brother called me directly.
First time since Christmas.
“You’re embarrassing Dad.”
I almost hung up.
Instead:
“How?”
“Turning his estate into litigation.”
“You hit Romy.”
“That has nothing to do with the estate.”
“You told me I threw away my inheritance.”
“I was angry.”
“So was I.”
“You’re proving my point.”
“What point?”
“That you react before you think.”
That landed because it was partly true.
I had thrown the Christmas package.
I had damaged property.
Romy saw.
I could own that without letting him use it as a universal explanation.
“What does key 214 open?”
Silence.
“I don’t know.”
“Then why did you spend weeks looking for it after Dad died?”
Another silence.
My cousin had told me.
He realized.
“People gossip.”
“You did search.”
“It was Dad’s.”
“What does it open?”
He hung up.
The next morning his attorney withdrew opposition to neutral access.
May you like
We scheduled the workshop inspection.
And my brother insisted on attending.
