If someone had told me five years ago that remarrying would jeopardize everything I had spent more than thirty years building, I would have laughed. And yet, that’s exactly what happened. If I still own my vineyard, my winery and my freedom today, it is thanks to a single decision, made almost instinctively at the time of my marriage to Richard Barnes: never to tell him or his three adult children that the estate on which we lived belonged entirely to me.

Everything. Every hectare, every vine, every bottle.

My name is Katherine Morrison, but everyone calls me Kathy. I bought my first five hectares in the Soma Valley in 1989. I was thirty-four years old at the time, a single mother and working as a real estate agent. A single woman buying raw land in wine region? Many thought I was crazy. The bank, for its part, almost burst out laughing.

But I had a vision. And above all, unwavering determination.

I started small. I planted my first Pinot Noir vines with my own hands. My daughter Emily was seven years old. She would help me after school, tying up the young vines with her clumsy little fingers. It took three years before the harvest was exploitable. Three years of combining my salaried work during the day and the care of the vines in the evenings and weekends. Three years of doubts, mockery, bets on my failure.

I never gave up.

In 1995, I had fifteen hectares planted and my first cuvée in the bottle. In 2000, fifty hectares and a small tasting room. In 2010, Morrison Estate Winery was recognized: seventy-five hectares, a stone cellar, a solid reputation and reviews in the specialized press.

Building this alone requires sacrifices that few people imagine. Sixteen-hour days. Loans secured on my personal assets. The harvest was spent outside at two in the morning. Every decision, every risk, every victory: that was me.

At sixty, Emily had taken off. With a degree in viticulture, she worked elsewhere and wanted to forge her own path. The estate then reached one hundred and fifty hectares, with an estimated value of several million. I was stable, proud… and profoundly alone.

That’s when I met Richard, at a charity auction in San Francisco. Former investment banker, recent widower, impeccable charm. He was interested in my wines. Then to me.

He came every weekend. Dinners have become regular. The projects, common. He seemed to admire my journey. I fell in love.

We got engaged after eight months. He proposed to me at sunset, in the middle of the vineyards. I said yes.

That’s when the questions began. Not on his part, but on that of his children.

From their first visit, I felt a strange tension. Patricia was inspecting the house like an expert. Derek was asking about finances. Mitchell was already talking about my will. I answered vaguely. I have spoken of family management, of complex structures, of trusts.

The day before the wedding, Emily alerted me. She sensed danger. She asked me if I had signed a marriage contract. I had one, solid, written by my long-time lawyer. Richard had signed it without enthusiasm but without refusing.

What I didn’t tell anyone was that I had never revealed the truth about the ownership of the estate.

I didn’t lie head-on. I simply omitted. I left the doubt hanging. A hunch led me to protect this information.

This intuition saved me.