At 74, I’ve learned that life has a way of teaching us lessons when we least expect it. My name’s Martha, and I’ve spent most of my life being a mother to my three children: Betty, Thomas, and Sarah. I gave them everything I had, but as they grew older and started their own families, they seemed to have less and less time for me. Sunday dinners became a thing of the past, replaced by soccer practices, recitals, and work commitments. I understood—life gets busy. But when my husband, Harold, passed away six years ago, things took a turn for the worse.
After a bad fall left me lying on the kitchen floor for hours, my children decided it was time for me to move into a nursing home. “It’s for the best, Mom,” they said. “You’ll have people to look after you.” I was scared at first, but I adjusted. My kids, however, barely visited. That is, until my health started declining. Suddenly, they were always around, doting on me, acting like the most caring family ever. Betty brought flowers, Thomas asked about my medication, and Sarah even held my hand during doctor visits. My grandkids showed up too, though most seemed more interested in their phones than in their old grandma.
The reason for their sudden attention? My inheritance. And the life insurance. One day, after a phone call with Betty, I realized she hadn’t hung up. I overheard her, Thomas, and Sarah discussing my cemetery plot and headstone. They had already reserved the spot next to Harold’s and were joking about who would pay for the engraving. “Someone can cover the costs now, and I’ll pay you back from the inheritance!” one of them joked.
That night, I cried myself to sleep. But by morning, my sadness turned to determination. I decided to fight. I took my medicine, drank my water, and followed the doctor’s orders. By the end of the month, I had made a remarkable recovery. “You’re a fighter, Martha,” the doctor said. “You have no idea,” I replied.
Once I was back in my room, I made some phone calls—to my lawyer, my bank, and finally, my children. I told them I wanted to discuss my will and asked them to come to the nursing home that Saturday. When they arrived, I had the nurses set up chairs in the community room. I smiled sweetly as they complimented how much better I looked. Then, I introduced my lawyer, Mr. Jenkins, who read out my original will, dividing everything equally among my children and grandchildren. They nodded in approval.
But then I asked Mr. Jenkins to read the new will. “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 protests. “What is this, Mama?” Betty demanded. “No joke,” I said calmly. I explained that I had sold the house, pulled most of my money from the bank, and donated a large portion to the nursing home’s Resident Support Fund and cancer research in memory of Harold. “Figured it’d do more good there than sittin’ in y’alls greedy lil’ pockets,” I said.
The room fell silent. “I heard y’all talkin’ about my cemetery plot and headstone,” I continued. “Laughin’ about payin’ for it with my inheritance. Did any of you ever think that maybe I wasn’t quite ready to be buried yet?” Their faces showed surprise, then shame. Good.
As for me? I’m leaving for the Grand Canyon next month. Turns out, life’s too short to wait around for a headstone.
