They all thought I was just a sweet old lady, barely hanging on, waiting for the inevitable. But when I overheard my own children talking about my headstone—one they had already picked out—I knew it was time to remind them that kindness does not mean weakness.
Life is funny like that. One minute, you’re in control, raising a family, making sacrifices, and the next, you’re just an afterthought.
I’m Martha, 74 years and five months old. And let me tell you, I’ve lived through enough ups and downs to fill a whole book. Life gives you beautiful moments, and then, just like that, it throws you into the deep end. But you have to keep swimming. That’s the only way to survive.
I was a mother first and foremost. My three children—Betty, my oldest; Thomas, my middle child; and my baby girl, Sarah—were my whole world. Their father, Harold, and I worked our fingers to the bone to give them a life we never had. We weren’t rich, but we made sure they had opportunities. College, birthdays, Christmases—we did it all.
I can still picture them as children, running around the house, their laughter filling the air. And I remember the pride that swelled in my heart the day each of them walked across that graduation stage. I sat there in the crowd, dabbing at my eyes with my handkerchief, thinking, ‘This is what all the hard work was for.’
But as they got older, got married, and had families of their own, I noticed something. They had less and less time for me.
The phone calls that used to be daily turned into weekly, then monthly. Sunday dinners became rare. And when my grandkids came along—seven of them!—they barely knew their own grandmother.
“Mom, we have soccer practice,” Betty would say.
“Mom, Thomas Jr. has a recital,” Thomas would explain.
“Mom, work is crazy right now,” Sarah would sigh.
I understood. Life gets busy. But when my Harold passed away six years ago, everything changed. For two years, I tried to manage on my own in the house we had shared for nearly fifty years. Then I had a bad fall. I lay on the kitchen floor for hours before my neighbor found me. That’s when my children decided it was time for a nursing home.
“It’s for the best, Mom,” they had said. “You’ll have people to take care of you.”
What they really meant was, ‘We don’t have time to take care of you.’
So, I’ve been in this nursing home for four years now. At first, I was miserable. My tiny room felt like a prison, and I cried myself to sleep more nights than I care to admit. But I made friends.
Gladys from down the hall taught me how to play bridge. Eleanor and I bonded over murder mystery books. And Dotty? Well, she snuck in homemade cookies when her daughter visited. We became a little family. The forgotten ones, abandoned by the children we had once sacrificed everything for.
And my own kids? They barely visited. Maybe five times in four years. Birthday calls turned into mailed cards. It hurt, but I told myself that’s just how life is.
But then, my health took a turn. Suddenly, my children were showing up all the time. Betty brought flowers. Thomas asked about my medication. Sarah even held my hand while the doctor spoke. My grandkids came too—though most of them spent more time on their phones than talking to me.
Why the sudden interest? My inheritance.
You see, Harold and I weren’t foolish with money. We saved, we invested, and now that old house was worth three times what we paid for it. Plus, there was the life insurance.
Then came that Tuesday.
Betty had called to check in, and after our usual chat, she forgot to hang up the phone. I could hear voices—her, Thomas, Sarah, and a few of my grandkids.
“Mom’s sounding better today,” Betty said.
“That’s good,” Thomas replied. “But we should still be prepared. Dad’s plot is paid for, and I’ve already reserved the one next to him for Mom.”
“Did you get the family discount from the cemetery?” Sarah asked.
Someone laughed. “I did better than that. I got them to throw in the headstone engraving for free. Just needs the date.”
My heart nearly stopped. They were planning my burial like it was a weekend project.
“Has anyone paid for the monument yet?” one of my grandkids asked.
“Not yet,” Betty said. “No one wants to front the money.”
“Someone can cover it now, and I’ll pay you back from the inheritance,” my daughter joked.
They all laughed. Laughed.
That night, I cried. But not for long. I’ve never been one to wallow. I had a plan.
I started taking my medicine properly, drinking my water, and getting stronger. By the end of the month, my doctor was amazed.
“You’re a fighter, Martha,” he said.
“You have no idea,” I replied.
Then, I called my lawyer. And my bank. And finally, my children.
“I need to discuss my will,” I told them. “Come to the nursing home this Saturday. Bring everyone.”
You ain’t never seen folks clear their schedules so fast.
Saturday came, and as they sat around the table, I smiled sweetly. “Thank you for coming. I know how busy y’all are.”
Mr. Jenkins, my lawyer, read my will.
Everything was divided equally. My children looked relieved.
Then I spoke. “But then I realized that wasn’t fair.”
Their smiles faded.
“Mr. Jenkins, please read the new will.”
He cleared his throat. “To my children, I leave one dollar each. To my grandchildren, one dollar each.”
Chaos erupted.
“What is this, Mama?” Betty shouted.
“No joke,” I said. “I sold the house. Gave a chunk to charity in honor of your father. Figured it’d do more good there than in your greedy little pockets.”
“But that’s our inheritance!” one of my grandkids protested.
“Is it?” I raised an eyebrow. “Harold and I worked for that money while y’all were too busy to visit me.”
Silence.
“With what’s left, I hired a caretaker, and I’m going to see the Grand Canyon. And Paris. All those places your father and I dreamed about but never saw.”
I looked around.
“Now, if y’all don’t mind, I have bingo at four, and I need to rest up.”
After they left, Gladys rolled over. “You really giving all your money away?”
I winked. “Most of it. Kept enough for a trip. Wanna come to the Grand Canyon?”
She grinned. “You bet I do.”
So here’s my advice: teach your children love isn’t measured in dollars. And don’t wait around for a headstone. Life’s too short for that.
