The Uncomfortable Conversation

Oh, there are a million uncomfortable conversations when you become a retired widow. But there is one in particular my son brought up recently.

He started it like this:

“Mom, I don’t want to hurt your feelings or make you cry, but I think I need to talk to you about something.”

My heart skipped a beat. I had no idea where this conversation was going.

“Yeah? What is it?”

He took a deep breath, looked me straight in the eyes, and asked,
“Do you have a will?”

I was prepared for illness, unemployment, or a secret elopement.
Instead… paperwork.

I actually laughed in relief.

“I don’t have one with a lawyer, but I do have things written down. It’s in the safe. You know the combination?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Do the sisters know?”

“Yes. I told them where it was right before my last knee surgery. You never know what’s going to happen under anesthesia.”

“Good,” he said. “You probably need to take care of that soon.”

“I will.”

That conversation was a few weeks ago.

And no — I still haven’t taken care of it.

But I will.

My husband and I talked about getting wills for years. We assumed we had decades before we needed to worry about it.

We didn’t.

I got lucky. Many widows don’t.

Because of how our accounts and property were titled, everything passed directly to me. No court dates. No legal delays. No decisions made while I was still trying to remember how to breathe without him in the house.

Grief makes simple tasks hard. Paperwork during grief feels impossible.

Now I understand something I didn’t before.

A will isn’t really for the person who writes it.

It’s for the people left standing in the kitchen afterward.

I don’t expect my children to fight over my things. They already know what they would like — his keepsakes, my jewelry, the small pieces of a life we built together. But life changes. Circumstances change. Families change.

Clarity is a kindness.

I don’t want them guessing.
I don’t want them worrying about being fair.
I don’t want them wondering what I would have wanted.

And most of all, I don’t want them making decisions about my life while they are grieving my death.

So yes — I need a will.

Not because I’m planning to leave them soon.

Because one day, I will.

And when that day comes, I want the last gift I give my children to be peace… not paperwork.

Apparently motherhood now includes planning my post-mortem filing system. I’ll call the lawyer, sign the papers, and label the folder so my kids don’t have to play “What did Mom mean by this?” while crying in my kitchen. If I can spare them one family meeting that begins with, “Well… I think she would have wanted…,” it’ll be worth every penny.

If you’ve been putting this off like I have, consider this your nudge from a friend: write it down, make the appointment, and give your family one less hard decision to carry someday.

Blessings,

Bethanne