They thought I was just a sweet old lady with one foot in the grave. When I overheard my own children discussing the gravestone they had already chosen for me, I decided it was high time to show them that kindness doesn’t equal weakness.
They say life is a rollercoaster, and honey, I can certainly attest to that.
I’ve been alive for about 74 years and five months now, and during that time, I’ve experienced my share of highs and lows.
One day, life is beautiful. Everything is going as you wish, and the next moment, something happens that makes your entire world come crashing down.
But you have to keep swimming. You have to keep going with the flow. That’s life.
No matter your age, there will always be something to fear. Something that keeps you moving forward.
My name is Martha, and I’ve spent most of my life being the mother of my three children. Betty is my eldest, Thomas is my middle child, and Sarah… well, she’s my little girl.
God knows I gave them everything I had.
At every birthday, every Christmas, every scraped knee, I was there, arms open, smile on my face. Their father and I worked hard to give them opportunities we never had.
We weren’t rich, far from it, but we managed to send all three of them to college. Lord, I can still remember the day each of them walked through the college door. I was sitting in the crowd, dabbing my eyes with a handkerchief, my heart ready to burst with pride.
But as they grew up, got married, and started their own families, I noticed they had less and less time for me. The daily phone calls became weekly, then monthly.
Sunday dinners at my place turned into holiday visits. And when the grandkids arrived (seven, if you can believe it), they were even busier.
“Mum, we have a soccer practice,” Betty would say.
“Mum, Thomas Jr. has a recital,” Thomas would explain.
“Mum, work is insane right now,” Sarah would sigh.
I understood. I really did. Life moves on, and the young ones have their own lives to lead. Then came the great-grandchildren. Now, there are three little blessings I barely know.
When my Harold passed away six years ago, things really changed. For two years, I tried to manage alone in the big house we had shared for nearly fifty years.
But after my second fall, when I lay on the kitchen floor for hours before the neighbor found me, my children decided it was time for me to go to the nursing home.
“It’s better this way, Mum,” they all agreed. “You’ll have people to take care of you.”
What they meant was that they didn’t have the time to care for me themselves.
I’ve been in this nursing home for four years now.
When I arrived, I was terrified. My room was tiny compared to the house I had left behind.
For the first few months, I cried myself to sleep almost every night.
But slowly, things changed. I met Gladys, down the hall, who taught me how to play bridge. Then there was Eleanor, who shared my love for detective novels, and Dotty, who would secretly bring homemade cookies when her daughter came to visit.
We became a little family of our own. We’d all been abandoned in one way or another by the children we had raised.
My kids and their families? They barely visited. Less than five times in four years, if you can believe it. Sometimes they’d call for birthdays or holidays, but more often than not, it was just a card in the mail.
I didn’t mind. That’s just life, right? At least that’s what I told myself every time I saw other residents with visitors while I sat alone.
But as soon as my health started to decline, everything changed. Suddenly, they were always there, surrounding me, acting like the most caring family you could ask for.
Betty brought flowers. Thomas inquired about my medications. Sarah held my hand while the doctor spoke. Even my grandkids came by, although most of them seemed more interested in their phones than in their old grandmother.
The reason? My inheritance.
Of course, they were all fighting for a bigger slice of the pie (and to be honest, it’s a huge pie). Harold and I weren’t fools with our money. We saved when it wasn’t easy, invested when people said we were crazy, and now this old house is worth three times what we paid for it.
Not to mention the life insurance.
It would’ve been funny if I hadn’t overheard them discussing how they’d already reserved a burial plot for me and even picked out a tombstone.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Betty had called to check on me, and we had a rather pleasant conversation. I told her how Gladys had won bingo three times in a row (either she’s blessed or cheating), and she told me about her daughter’s dance recital.
When we finished talking, I was about to hang up when I realized Betty hadn’t ended the call on her side. I heard voices in the background… Betty, Thomas, Sarah, and some of my grandchildren.
“Mum seems better today,” Betty said.
“That’s good,” Thomas replied. “But we still need to get ready. Dad’s plot is paid for, and I’ve already reserved the one next to him for Mum.”
“Did you get the cemetery’s family discount?” Sarah asked.
Someone laughed. “I did better than that. They’re giving me the engraving on the tombstone. Just need the date.”
My heart nearly stopped. They were discussing my funeral as if it were a picnic.
“Has anyone already paid for the monument?” one of my granddaughters asked.
“Not yet,” Betty answered. “No one wants to front the money.”
“Someone can cover the cost now, and I’ll reimburse them from the inheritance!” my daughter joked, and they all laughed as if it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
I hung up the phone, shaking. Is this what I get? After sacrificing my whole life for them? After every diaper I changed, every tear I wiped away, every dream I set aside for them to have more? They’re counting the days until I’m gone, dividing up what I leave behind?
I cried a lot that night on the hospital bed, but my sadness soon turned to determination.
I’ve never been the type to sit around and cry for long. After 74 years on this earth, you learn a thing or two about handling delicate situations.
That very evening, I asked the nurse for an extra pillow, drank all my water, and took my medications without complaint. By the end of the week, I was sitting up. And by the end of the month, the doctor was surprised by how quickly I had bounced back.
“You’re a fighter, Martha,” he said with a smile.
“You have no idea,” I replied.
Once back in my room at the nursing home, I made a few calls. First to my lawyer, then to my bank, and finally to my children.
“I need to talk to all of you about my will,” I said. “I’m getting old, and after this scare, well, I want to make sure everything is in order. Can you come to the nursing home this Saturday? Bring the grandkids and great-grandkids too. It’s important.”
God have mercy, you’ve never seen people drop their plans so fast in your life.
Betty canceled a hair appointment. Thomas rescheduled some golf. Sarah found a babysitter for her dog. And suddenly, none of my grandchildren had anything planned for Saturday.
When Saturday arrived, I asked the nurses to set up chairs in the common room. As my family walked in, including some I hadn’t seen in years, I sat at the end of the table. My lawyer, Mr. Jenkins, sat beside me with a briefcase full of documents.
“Mum, you look a lot better,” Betty said, kissing me on the cheek.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” I said with a gentle smile. “I know you’re all very busy.”
I nodded to Mr. Jenkins, who opened his briefcase and pulled out a document.
“This is my will,” I explained. “It divides everything equally among my three children, with provisions for my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” I paused, noticing they all leaned slightly forward. “Mr. Jenkins will read it to you.”
As he read the details about the house, savings, investments, and life insurance, I watched their faces.
They looked relieved.
When he finished, Thomas said, “That sounds very fair, Mum.”
“That’s what I thought too,” I nodded. “But then I realized, it’s not fair at all.”
Their smiles faded.
“Mr. Jenkins, please read the new will.”
He pulled out another document. “I, Martha, being of sound mind, hereby bequeath the following: To my children Betty, Thomas, and Sarah, I leave one dollar each. To each of my grandchildren, I also leave one dollar each.”
The room erupted in confused protests. Betty’s face turned red. Thomas stood up. And Sarah? She started crying.
“What’s this, Mum?” Betty asked. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“This is no joke,” I said calmly. “I withdrew most of my money from the bank, sold the house, and gave a large portion to the nursing home resident’s fund and cancer research… in memory of your father. I thought it would do more good there than sitting in your greedy little pockets.”
“But… but it’s our inheritance!” one of my grandchildren exclaimed.
“Is it?” I asked, my voice suddenly sharp. “Funny, I thought it was my money. Your grandfather and I worked hard for that money. We saved every penny while all of you were too busy living your lives to visit me more than five times in four years.”
The room fell silent.
“I heard you all, you know. Talking about my burial plot. About the tombstone. The one you’ve already picked out for me. You have no idea how many tears I’ve cried. No idea what I’ve given up for you. Well, now you can have what you deserve… and nothing more. Your inheritance is gone.”
It was clear that my message hit home. After all, they came running when the money was involved. But when it came to offering love and respect to the woman who had raised them?
Not so much.
They left in a hurry. None of them said a word to me as they walked out. I smiled to myself.
I guess it’s true, isn’t it? You only know how much people truly care when the money runs out.
I never intended for it to come to this. But I also know that sometimes the hardest lessons are the ones that sting the most.
I’ll die when I’m good and ready. And when I do, they won’t be around to profit from my death.
The last laugh, my dear, belongs to me.
