The Envelope
The envelope arrived on a Monday morning — March 18, 2024, at 9:23 a.m.
My assistant, Rebecca, brought it in with my usual stack of partnership proposals, merger inquiries, and strategic alliance requests. Morrison & Whitley received dozens of these every week — smaller firms hoping to align themselves with one of the largest corporate law firms in the country. Most received a polite rejection letter.
“These need your review,” Rebecca said, setting the stack on my mahogany desk. “The Anderson Group merger is time-sensitive. And there’s a partnership proposal from a small firm in Chicago that might be worth considering.”
Chicago.
I looked up from my laptop. “Which firm?”
She checked her notes. “Brennan & Associates. Midsized, about forty attorneys. They’re looking for a strategic partnership to handle overflow work and gain access to our international resources.”
Brennan & Associates.
My father’s firm.
I kept my face neutral. “Leave it with me. I’ll review it this afternoon.”
After Rebecca left, I stared at the envelope for a full five minutes before opening it.
The proposal was professionally formatted and comprehensive — twelve pages detailing Brennan & Associates’ practice areas, client roster, recent cases, and financial projections. Corporate law. Business litigation. Solid work. Respectable, if unspectacular.
But the numbers told the real story.
Revenue down 23% over three years.
Three major clients lost in the past eighteen months.
An aging partner demographic with no clear succession plan.
Rising overhead. Declining billable hours.
They were drowning — slowly but inevitably.
This partnership wasn’t about growth.
It was about survival.
The proposal was signed by three senior partners: Robert Brennan, Thomas Mitchell, and Michael Brennan.
My father’s name was first.
Robert Brennan.
The man who told me I’d never make it as a lawyer.
Who skipped my law school graduation because he “had a case to prepare.”
Who spent my entire childhood comparing me unfavorably to my older brother, Marcus.
And now he was coming to me for help.
He just didn’t know it yet.
I picked up my phone and called Rebecca.
“The Brennan proposal — schedule a meeting for tomorrow at 2 p.m. Full presentation. Tell them to bring their senior partners. All of them.”
“All of them?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
I hung up and leaned back in my chair, staring out at the Manhattan skyline from my corner office on the forty-third floor.
Tomorrow was going to be interesting.
The problems with my father started early.
I was eight years old the first time I heard him tell someone I wasn’t smart enough to be a lawyer. It was a family barbecue — July 4, 2001. My uncle asked about my grades, and before I could answer, my father laughed.
“Katie’s a solid B student. She tries hard. But Marcus — Marcus has the brain for law.”
Marcus was ten. He’d won a school debate competition. I’d gotten straight A’s that semester. No one mentioned it.
By high school, the comparisons were constant.
Marcus joined debate. So did I.
Marcus became captain sophomore year.
I became captain junior year.
My father never came to my competitions.
Marcus got into Northwestern. I got into Princeton.
“Northwestern has a better pre-law program,” my father said. “More practical.”
Marcus scored a 168 on the LSAT. I scored a 172.
“The LSAT doesn’t measure what really matters,” my father told his partners. “Instincts. Courtroom presence. Marcus has that.”
When I got into Harvard Law, my father said,
“Well, they have to fill their diversity quotas somehow.”
I was a white woman from an upper-middle-class family.
I got in on merit.
But he couldn’t admit that.
The breaking point came during my second year at Harvard.
December 2014.
My father was hosting a dinner party for his partners. I was in the kitchen when I heard him in the living room.
“Marcus is clerking for Judge Patterson this summer,” he said. “Federal appellate court. That’s how you build a real legal career.”
“What about Katie?” someone asked. “Isn’t she at Harvard Law?”
My father’s response was dismissive.
“She’s doing fine, I suppose. But she doesn’t have what it takes to be a real lawyer. Too soft. Too emotional. She’ll probably end up in legal aid. Helping people with parking tickets.”
The room laughed.
I walked in.
“Actually,” I said, my voice shaking but clear, “I just accepted a summer associate position at Cravath. Starting salary — $3,800 a week.”
Silence.
My father’s face turned red. “Katie, this isn’t the time.”
“You’re right,” I said. “It’s not the time to humiliate your daughter in front of your colleagues. But you did it anyway.”
I packed my bag, called a taxi, and flew back to Boston that night.
He called the next morning.
“You embarrassed me in front of my partners.”
“No,” I said. “You embarrassed me. Again.”
“I’m done, Dad. Don’t call me again unless you’re ready to apologize.”
He didn’t call.
I graduated from Harvard Law in May 2016 — third in my class. Harvard Law Review. Six top-tier job offers.
My father didn’t attend graduation.
He sent a card. A $500 check.
“Congratulations. Hope the degree serves you well.”
I started at Cravath in September 2016.
The work was brutal. Hundred-hour weeks. Impossible deadlines. Associates crying in bathrooms. Quitting. Burning out.
I thrived.
Because every time I wanted to quit, I heard my father’s voice:
She doesn’t have what it takes.
I made partner in seven years.
Specialized in complex corporate litigation.
Won. A lot.
In 2021, Morrison & Whitley recruited me as senior partner.
In 2023, at thirty-five, I became the youngest managing partner in the firm’s history.
Twelve offices worldwide.
1,200 attorneys.
$3.2 billion in annual revenue.
And I ran it.
My father had no idea.
Tuesday afternoon, at 2:07 p.m., I walked into Conference Room A.
Three men stood up.
Robert Brennan — my father.
Thomas Mitchell.
Michael Brennan.
No recognition.
“Catherine Morrison,” I said, extending my hand. “Managing Partner of Morrison & Whitley.”
I use my mother’s maiden name professionally.
The meeting unfolded exactly as expected — confidence masking desperation, pride fighting reality.
Until I closed the folder.
“Gentlemen,” I said calmly, “I don’t see a fit here.”
My father stood up. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I rarely do, Mr. Brennan.”
He stared at me — and then it clicked.
“Katie?”
“Hello, Dad.”
The room froze.
What followed wasn’t revenge.
It was reckoning.
An apology.
Eight years too late.
Offered only when he needed something.
And yet — real.
“I’m proud of you,” he said. “I should have said it years ago.”
I reviewed the proposal again.
Not a partnership.
An acquisition.
Fifteen million dollars.
His firm saved.
His people protected.
His legacy preserved.
But he would report to me.
“If you can’t handle your daughter being your boss,” I said, “walk away now.”
He swallowed hard. “I can handle it.”
Monday morning, 8:47 a.m.
“Catherine,” he said. “We’re accepting your offer.”
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the skyline.
I’d proven him wrong.
Built everything he said I couldn’t.
And somehow, that victory didn’t feel triumphant.
It just felt… finished.