At 74, my own children saw me as a sweet old lady with one foot in the grave. I gave them everything — love, support, education, holidays, scraped knees and late-night talks. But after my husband died and they moved on with their lives, I became little more than a name on a birthday card.
Then one day, I overheard them — laughing about the headstone they’d already picked out, the cemetery plot they’d reserved next to their father. They even joked about paying for the engraving out of my inheritance. I was still alive. Still breathing. Still me.So, I got to work. I recovered, stronger than ever. Then I called a family meeting.
First, I had my lawyer read the will they expected: a fair split between everyone. Their faces lit up. But then — I had him read the real will.Each of my children and grandchildren? One dollar.
The rest? Donated to causes that matter, and enough saved for me — to travel, to live, to finally put myself first. After all those years of sacrifice, I’m not waiting for a grave. I’m going to the Grand Canyon.Let them keep the headstone. I’ve still got places to go and a life to enjoy.