They thought I was just a sweet old lady with one foot in the grave. They saw my gray hair, my wrinkled hands, and the way I shuffled around, and they figured I was too weak to stand up for myself. But they were wrong. Dead wrong.
I always knew my children had grown distant over the years. Betty, Thomas, and Sarah, my three babies. I raised them with all the love in my heart. Every scraped knee, every school play, every dream they had—I was there, cheering them on.
Me and Harold, their daddy, worked our fingers to the bone so they could have a better life than we did. We weren’t rich, but we made do. We put all three of ‘em through college, and when each one walked across that stage, I sat in the crowd, dabbin’ at my eyes with a handkerchief, heart near to burstin’ with pride.
Then life happened. They got married. Had their own kids. Built their own lives. The phone calls that used to be every day became every week, then every month. Sunday dinners became holiday visits. And when the grandkids arrived, well, they were too busy for me, too.
“Mom, we’ve got soccer practice,” Betty would say.
“Mom, Thomas Jr. has a recital,” Thomas would explain.
“Mom, work is just crazy right now,” Sarah would sigh.
And I understood. Life moves fast. But then, Harold passed away. My rock. My best friend. The man I spent fifty years building a life with. And suddenly, I was alone in that big ol’ house. I tried to keep up, I really did, but after my second fall left me layin’ on the kitchen floor for hours before a neighbor found me, my kids decided it was time for a nursing home.
“It’s for the best, Mom,” they said. “You’ll have people to look after you.”
What they really meant was they didn’t have time to do it themselves.
So here I’ve been for four years. At first, I cried myself to sleep most nights. But then, I made friends. Gladys from down the hall taught me bridge. Eleanor and I swapped mystery novels. Dotty sneaked me homemade cookies when her daughter visited. We became a family. The forgotten ones. The ones left behind by the very children we spent our lives raisin’.
My own kids barely visited. Five times in four years, maybe. Sometimes a phone call, a birthday card in the mail. And I accepted it. I told myself it’s just how life is. But then, my health started slippin’. And suddenly, they were around more. Actin’ like the most devoted family you ever did see.
Betty brought flowers. Thomas checked my medication. Sarah actually held my hand while the doctor talked. My grandkids even showed up, though they spent most of the time tappin’ away on their phones.
The reason? My inheritance.
Oh, they didn’t think I knew, but I heard them. That Tuesday, after Betty called me for a quick chat about nothin’ in particular, she forgot to hang up. And I heard every word.
“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 stomach turned to ice.
“Has anyone paid for the monument yet?” one of my granddaughters asked.
“Not yet,” Betty said. “No one wants to front the money.”
“Someone can cover the costs now, and I’ll pay you back from the inheritance!” Sarah joked, and they all laughed like it was the funniest thing they ever heard.
I sat there, phone still in my hand, my fingers shaking. My own children, planning my burial like they were orderin’ lunch. Like I was already gone.
That night, I cried. Oh, I cried something fierce. But then, I wiped my tears and did what I’ve always done—I got to work. I drank my water, took my medicine, asked for an extra pillow, and by the end of the week, I was sittin’ up. By the end of the month, I was walkin’ around again. When my doctor saw me, he smiled wide.
“You’re a fighter, Martha.”
“You have no idea,” I told him.
Then, I made my own 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. “Can you come this Saturday? Bring the grandkids. It’s important.”
Lord have mercy, you ain’t never seen folks drop plans so quick in your life. Betty canceled a hair appointment. Thomas rescheduled a golf game. Sarah got a babysitter for her dog. They all came, eager to hear about their ‘inheritance’.
When they arrived, I sat at the head of the table in the community room. My lawyer, Mr. Jenkins, sat beside me with a briefcase full of papers.
“Mama, you’re lookin’ so much better,” Betty said, kissin’ my cheek.
“Thank you for comin’, all of you,” I said, smiling sweetly. “I know how busy y’all are.”
Mr. Jenkins opened his briefcase and pulled out a document. “This is my will,” I said. “Dividin’ everything equally among my children, grandkids, and great-grandkids.”
They all leaned forward.
Mr. Jenkins read it aloud, listin’ the house, the savings, the investments. They looked relieved. Then Thomas said, “That sounds very fair, Mom.”
I nodded. “I thought so too. But then, I realized it wasn’t fair at all.”
Their smiles froze.
“Mr. Jenkins, read the new will.”
He pulled out another document. “I, Martha, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath the following: To my children, Betty, Thomas, and Sarah, I leave one dollar each. To my grandchildren, I leave one dollar each.”
The room exploded.
“What is this, Mama?” Betty demanded.
“No joke,” I said, calm as can be. “I pulled my money outta the bank, sold the house, and gave most of it to the nursin’ home’s Resident Support Fund and Cancer Research— in memory of your daddy.”
“But… that’s our inheritance!” one of my grandkids blurted out.
“Is it?” I asked. “Funny, I thought it was my money. And I decided I’d rather see it do some good than sit in the pockets of folks who couldn’t bother to visit me.”
They were speechless.
“With what’s left, I’m hirin’ a caretaker and goin’ to see the Grand Canyon. And Paris. And all those places me and your father dreamed about but never saw.”
Then I stood up. “Now, if y’all don’t mind, I have bingo at four, and I need to rest up.”
After they left, Gladys wheeled over. “You really givin’ all your money to charity?”
I winked. “Most of it. Kept enough for those trips, though. Wanna come?”
She grinned. “You bet I do.”
And that, my dears, is how I reminded my children that kindness ain’t the same as weakness.
