They saw me as nothing more than a sweet old lady, a little out of touch with the world. But after overhearing my children discussing the headstone they’d already picked out for me, I realized it was time to teach them a lesson: kindness is not weakness.
Life, as they say, is a rollercoaster — and honey, I can vouch for that.
I’ve been alive for about 74 years and five months. In that time, I’ve ridden every high and low imaginable.
One day, everything seems perfect. The world is smiling at you. And the next, it crumbles beneath your feet.
But you keep going. You keep swimming with the current. That’s life. That’s the entire point of it all.
No matter your age, there will always be something to worry about — something that keeps you going.
My name is Martha. I’ve spent most of my life as a mother to three children. Thomas is my middle one, Betty’s the oldest, and Sarah is my baby.
I gave them everything I had — God knows I did.
I was there for every birthday and every Christmas, for every scraped knee and every heartbreak. Their father and I worked tirelessly to give them the chances we never had.
Though we were far from rich, we made sure all three of them went to college. I can still remember the day they walked across that graduation stage. I sat in the crowd, tears in my eyes, heart bursting with pride.
But as the years went on — as they got married and had families of their own — they had less and less time for me. Daily phone calls became weekly, then monthly.
Sunday dinners in my house turned into holiday visits, and my grandchildren — all seven of them — were even busier when they did show up.
“Mom, we’ve got soccer practice,” Betty would say.
“Mom, Thomas Jr. has a recital,” Thomas would explain.
“Work’s just insane right now,” Sarah would sigh.
And I understood. I did. Young people have their lives. Life moves on. Then came the great-grandchildren. And now? I can barely recognize these three tiny miracles.
Everything really changed six years ago when Harold died. I spent two years trying to live alone in that big, empty house we shared for nearly fifty years.
But after my second fall — when I lay on the kitchen floor for hours until the neighbor found me — my children decided it was time for the nursing home.
“It’s for the best, Mom,” they said. “There will be people to care for you.”
What they meant was: we don’t have time to care for you ourselves.
It’s been four years since I moved into this nursing home.
When I first arrived, I was scared. My room felt so small compared to the house I left behind.
Most nights in those early months, I cried myself to sleep.
But slowly, things began to change. I met Gladys down the hall — she taught me to play bridge. Then came Dotty, who would sneak in homemade cookies whenever her daughter visited. And Eleanor, who loved murder mysteries just like I did.
We formed a small family of our own. All of us abandoned, in one way or another, by the children we raised.
And my kids? They barely came. Less than five times in four years, if you can believe that. A holiday call here, a birthday card there.
I told myself it didn’t bother me. “That’s just how life goes,” I’d say every time I saw other residents with visitors.
But then my health started to decline — and suddenly, they all showed up. Bringing flowers, asking about medications, holding my hand.
Even the grandkids came, though most of them spent more time looking at their phones than at me.
Why? The money.
They were circling, each hoping for a bigger slice of the pie — and to be fair, it’s a pretty big pie. Harold and I were smart with our money. We invested when people thought we were crazy, saved when it was hard. That old house is now worth three times what we paid for it.
And there was life insurance too.
It might’ve been funny if I hadn’t overheard them talking about my funeral plans like they were organizing a family barbecue.
That happened on a Tuesday.
Betty had called to check in. We chatted pleasantly — I told her how Gladys had won bingo three times in a row (either she’s blessed or cheating). She told me about her daughter’s recital.
Just as we finished talking, I noticed she hadn’t hung up.
I heard voices in the background. Betty, Thomas, Sarah, and a few of the grandchildren.
“Mom sounds better today,” Betty said.
“That’s great,” Thomas replied. “But we should still be prepared. I’ve already reserved the spot next to Dad for Mom. It’s all paid for.”
“Did you get the cemetery discount?” Sarah asked.
Someone chuckled. “Better. Got the headstone engraving included — just need to add the date.”
My heart sank.
“Did you pay for the marker?” one of my grandkids asked.
“Not yet,” Betty said. “No one wants to front the money.”
“I’ll cover it from the inheritance,” someone laughed. “We’ll settle up later!”
They all laughed like it was the best joke they’d ever heard.
I hung up with trembling hands.
After everything I gave up for them? Every tear I wiped, every diaper I changed, every dream I buried — so they could live better?
Now they were dividing my things, counting the days?
That night, I cried. But only for a while.
Because then came resolve.
I’ve never been the type to wallow. After 74 years on this Earth, you learn a thing or two about facing hard moments.
That very night, I took my meds, drank all my water, asked for an extra pillow. By the end of the week, I was sitting up. By the end of the month, I was walking again.
“You’re a fighter, Martha,” the doctor said.
“You have no idea,” I replied.
I made some phone 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 told them. “After this health scare, I want to make sure everything’s in order. Can you come visit the nursing home this Saturday? Bring the grandkids and great-grandkids. It’s important.”
They canceled everything.
Betty skipped her hair appointment. Thomas postponed his golf game. Sarah found someone to watch the dog. Even the grandkids cleared their schedules.
Saturday came. I had the nurses set up chairs in the common room. I sat at the head of the table. My family filed in — some of whom I hadn’t seen in years. Mr. Jenkins, my lawyer, sat next to me.
“You’re looking much better, Mama,” Betty said, kissing my cheek.
“Thank you all for coming,” I said with a smile. “I know how busy you are.”
Mr. Jenkins pulled out a document.
“This is my will,” I began. “It divides everything equally between my three children and provides for the grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” I paused as they all leaned in. “Mr. Jenkins, please read it.”
He listed the house, the investments, the savings, the life insurance.
They looked… satisfied.
“That sounds fair, Mom,” Thomas said.
“I thought so too,” I replied. “Until I realized — it’s not.”
Their smiles faded.
“Mr. Jenkins, please read the updated will.”
He pulled out another sheet.
I, Martha, being of sound mind, hereby leave:
– One dollar each to my children, Betty, Thomas, and Sarah.
– One dollar each to all of my grandchildren.
The rest of my estate shall be donated to cancer research and to the Resident Support Fund at the nursing home, in memory of my late husband, Harold.
The room exploded.
Betty’s face turned red. Thomas stood up. Sarah burst into tears.
“Mama, what is this? Some kind of joke?” Betty demanded.
“No joke,” I said calmly. “I withdrew the money from the bank, sold the house, and donated most of it. I figured it would do more good helping others than sitting in your greedy little pockets.”
“But… that’s our inheritance!” one grandchild cried.
“Is it?” I asked. “I thought it was my money — that your grandfather and I worked our whole lives for. While you all were too busy to visit more than five times in four years.”
The room fell silent.
“I heard you. Talking about headstones and funeral plots. Laughing about paying for it out of my ‘inheritance’. Did any of you stop to wonder if maybe I wasn’t ready to be buried just yet?”
There was a shift — from shock to shame. Good.
“I’m going to the Grand Canyon. I’m hiring a full-time caregiver. Maybe even Paris. All those places your father and I dreamed about but never visited because we were too busy raising you, paying for weddings, tuition, braces.”
I smiled.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling a bit tired. Gladys and I have bingo at four.”
Once they’d all left, Gladys wheeled up beside me.
“Did you really donate it all?” she whispered.
I winked. “Most of it. But I kept enough for those trips. Want to come to the Grand Canyon with me?”
She grinned. “I’d love to.”
I’m not telling this story to say you shouldn’t be kind to your children. I have no regrets about the time I