If he knew his wife was going to start hacking his account, he would have moved heaven and earth to prevent it.
But he absolutely adored her so he never imagined it would come to this.
Truth is, he should have known something was up because the warning signs were going off like sirens. Especially one morning in May last year.
“I can’t get into my share trading account, something’s going on”. He muttered at breakfast.
Despite the knot in her stomach, she gently peppered him with questions because she was just as nervous. But it was too late.
James died of brain cancer three months later.
And then the hacking began.
His wife spent every spare moment obsessing over nick names, kids names, and every other name hoping one of them would be the elusive password she desperately needed.
If not, it would mean another fifty emails back and forth to the solicitor with signed stat decs, photo ID, marriage, birth and death certificates…plus more fees.
As a friend, I don’t know what’s harder to watch…
A lady who was loved to distraction by her husband, now on her own. Or a widow who spends her days trying not to cry as she helplessly navigates her way through probate.
Unfortunately, there are some tasks only she can do.
Like proving to the bank teller, she really was married to her late husband and she really is the joint account holder…
Or the roads and maritime service who continually insist on copies of the will just to transfer their car into her name…
Or her well-meaning friends who constantly remind her that widows should never trust solicitors. (Read, fees)
If James had any idea of the torment his wife was going through now, he’d be absolutely devastated.
But James was old school.
He wanted his wife to know that if the wagon was surrounded by Indians, he could step down and take care of everything.
This meant he paid every bill, knew which tradesmen to trust, and sorted all the mail.
He just wanted their home to be a soft place to fall.
But sadly, it’s had the reverse effect. The house is now surrounded by passwords and he’s not around.
When I’m Gone
An estate plan isn’t just a watertight will.
Estate planning is like a cricket pitch, and if James was here, I’d be appealing to the cricket tragic within.
Meaning, if his will was the wicket, the ball would be a red manila folder with WIG written on the front cover (When I’m Gone).
‘When I’m Gone’ would be replete with all the log-ins plus where to find the will, title deeds, financials (spreadsheets), insurance policies, subscriptions, names and numbers of accountants, solicitors, bankers, stockbrokers, doctors, tradesmen. The whole team!
His WIG folder would have one enduring purpose…to deliver a pain-free estate for his wife, wrapped and laced in love.
The way he would have wanted if he had the chance.
Have a great weekend!
Adam
Back paddock – just when the caterpillar thought the world was coming to an end, it turned into a butterfly. Chuang Tzu
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