"The family business has been sold. Your share is $10,000." The words hung in the air of my late husband's study, as foreign and incomprehensible as if they'd been spoken in another language.
I looked up from the antique desk where Richard had worked for decades, my fingers still tracing the worn leather surface where his hands had rested just weeks ago.
"I'm sorry, Mom." "What did you just say?" My voice sounded steadier than I felt, which was fortunate. At 68, I'd become quite skilled at maintaining composure even when my world was collapsing.
First, Richard's sudden stroke 3 weeks ago, then the funeral I'd somehow navigated in a fog of grief, and now this. My only son standing before me with a document and an expression I couldn't quite decipher. "It's all here, Mom." Oliver slid the paper across the desk, his manicured fingernails a stark contrast to the calluses his father had earned building Bradford Precision Technologies from nothing.
"I know it's a shock, but Dad had been considering offers for months. The deal just happened to close after, well, after everything." I glanced down at the document, a single page with surprisingly little detail for something purporting to dissolve a company worth $13 million. "$10,000," I repeated slowly. "For my share of a business your father and I built over 45 years of marriage."
"Your share," Oliver emphasized, adjusting his Italian silk tie, a nervous habit he'd developed in boarding school. "Dad's controlling interest passed to me through the trust he established years ago. This is just the standard spousal compensation package based on the final sale price." Standard spousal compensation, as if I were a minor employee being offered a modest severance package rather than the woman who had stood beside Richard Blackwood through four decades of struggle, sacrifice, and eventual success.
"I see." I kept my tone neutral, even curious. "And who is the buyer? Another aerospace firm?
One of our competitors?" Oliver hesitated just a fraction too long. "It's a private investment group, Monarch Holdings. They specialize in acquisitions of mid-sized manufacturing companies."
"Monarch Holdings," I echoed, watching my son's face carefully. "I don't believe Richard ever mentioned them." "It was a recent development." Oliver's confidence seemed to return.
"They approached us just before Dad's stroke, actually. The timing is unfortunate, but the deal is solid. They're maintaining operations and keeping most of the staff. It's what Dad would have wanted."
Was it? I wondered, remembering Richard's raspy whisper during one of his last lucid moments in the hospital. "Amelia, promise me you'll protect what we built. Something's not right."
At the time, I'd attributed his concern to the confusion that sometimes accompanies stroke victims. Now, I wasn't so sure. "When will I meet the new owners?" I asked, folding the document neatly and slipping it into the pocket of my cardigan.