Everyone thought I was just a sweet old lady on her last leg. But when I overheard my own kids discussing my headstone like I was already gone, I realized it was time to show them—kindness isn’t weakness.
My name’s Martha. I’m 74, and life’s been one wild ride. I raised three kids—Betty, Thomas, and Sarah—and gave them everything I had. Every scraped knee, every holiday, every sacrifice, I was there. Their father and I worked hard to give them a better life, and we were proud to watch them succeed.
But once they had families of their own, the visits stopped. The calls slowed. After my husband died, the loneliness hit hard. And when I fell and couldn’t get up, they moved me into a nursing home—“for my safety,” they said. Really, they just didn’t have time.
I made peace with it—sort of. My new friends here became my chosen family. Meanwhile, my kids barely visited—until I got sick. Then suddenly, they were all around, asking about my will and my money.
And then I heard it: they were planning my funeral behind my back—buying headstones, arguing over money, even joking about paying for things now and getting reimbursed later from the inheritance. I was crushed.
But not for long.
I got better. Stronger. Then I called my lawyer and my kids.
“I want to talk about my will,” I said.
They all showed up, hopeful and eager. I let them hear the original will—everything split equally. Then I had my lawyer read the new one.
Each of them—kids, grandkids—got one dollar.
The rest? Donated to the nursing home and cancer research, in memory of their father. I sold the house, pulled my money, and planned the trips Harold and I never took.
They were shocked. Angry. Speechless.
I told them the truth: love isn’t measured in money. And no one has the right to expect a reward for ignoring their own mother.
Next month, I’m heading to the Grand Canyon—with my friend Gladys. Life’s too short to wait around for a headstone.
Leave a Reply