Ben and Sam often reflected over drams of The Macallan on FWF, their acronym for Families Will Fight. Their venerable practices of law and medicine had long been windows on human nature, sometimes heartening, often depressing. In their professional practices, both curmudgeons instinctively fought to mitigate FWF, with varying degrees of success. One thing they knew: no one won family fights. An apparent victory always became a defeat or at best a draw.
How to avoid, or block, or derail FWF occupied much of their musings.
Ben had one common sense tactic he advised occasionally for situations when a strong patriarch or matriarch who had kept sibling children under control expected FWF after death. A prime example was the case of Riley Sneed, owner of Blooming Plantation outside Thomasville.
Riley was leaving Blooming and the rest of him considerable wealth in trust for his wife Pricilla for her life, remainder equally to his three children, Bill, Bob and Sue. When he came to see Ben about his plan he said, “I know they will fight like hell among themselves about dividing Blooming especially but also my summer place in the North Carolina highlands and my Montana ranch and my sports car collection and Ann’s jewelry and the paintings and my shotguns and……” Ben held up his hand, traffic cop style.
“I have a suggestion,” Ben said.
He explained it, and Riley grinned. “That’s the perfect solution,” Riley said. So Ben put the paragraph in Riley’s trust.
Not long after, Riley died, as expected. A week later Ben met with Pricilla and the children. He had met with Riley and Pricilla while Riley was alive to explain how his solution for FWF would work. Priscilla had loved it then, and Ben could tell she was relishing hearing his explanation of it to the children today. Copies of the trust and a list of assets with estimated values had gone to the children before the meeting.
Without preamble, once the five were seated around Ben’s library-conference room table, Priscilla said, “Children, Ben will explain how things are going to work.”
With that explanation, Ben began.
“I am glad to see you, but sorry about the occasion that brings us here. As you know, your father treated you the same and equally in his trust. You will each receive an equal share of his assets by value at your mother’s death. Until then, she is the only beneficiary.
He gave her one other power over his assets, which I will explain now. He gave her a power to direct any part of any of your shares to charity instead of of you at her death if she so chooses.
I am going to give you when you leave today a personal letter from your father to you explaining why he did this. Each of your letters is different, but all ask the same of you. Agree among yourselves on the division of the assets among you, and do it within a month from today, then present the agreement to your mother. If you do she will agree not to exercise her power to appoint to charity, if you do not fall out in disputes while she lives and you confirm your continued agreement to her each year on her birthday. Any questions?”
The children looked like deer in headlights, and were utterly silent. They rose and filed silently out of Ben’s library-conference room.
Priscilla said, “Call Sam Nixon and break out the Macallan.”