They thought I was just a kind old woman—out of touch, harmless. But after overhearing my kids discussing my headstone like I was already gone, I decided to teach them that kindness isn’t weakness. I’m Martha, 74 years old, mother of three. I gave my kids everything—love, sacrifices, college educations, Sunday dinners. As they got older, their visits dwindled to holidays. When my husband died and I fell twice, they put me in a nursing home. “It’s for the best,” they said. What they meant was: We’re too busy.
Four years passed with barely a visit. But when my health declined, suddenly everyone showed up—flowers, check-ins, hand-holding. Why? The inheritance. They knew about the house, the savings, the insurance. And when I accidentally overheard them joking about my funeral and headstone, I knew it was time.
