After losing my wife, my family stopped visiting me altogether, but the neighborhood children became my comfort with their frequent visits. Once I got tired of being neglected by my own family, I decided to make them see the error of their ways.
Seventy-eight years on this earth, and I’ve learned a few things about people. I know how they’ll hug you close when you’re useful, then forget you when you’re not. But I suppose, after years of sitting alone in this old house, you either grow bitter about it or figure out a way to laugh. I decided to laugh and maybe teach a little lesson while I was at it.
I’d been mostly alone since Ellie, my dear wife, passed away 17 years ago. I can still remember the quiet in the house after the funeral, a silence that filled every corner, pressing on my ears like cotton.
I thought, surely, family would fill some of that emptiness. After all, we’d raised three kids together, watched our six grandkids grow up, and even welcomed two great-grandkids. Surely, I thought, they’d be around. But a man can only hope…
But hope and reality don’t always shake hands. Months turned to years, and besides the occasional holiday card or awkward phone call, my family all but disappeared. I’d watch out the window, see the neighbors out with their kids, and hear the laughter that belonged to everyone else but me.
And then, like a gift from somewhere up high, the neighborhood kids started coming around! Ben, Sasha, Emma, and a handful of other kids would peek through my gate, and eventually, they’d trickle in, one by one!
At first, it was just a curious visit, then another, and before I knew it, they were spending whole afternoons with me! They’d bring cookies they’d baked (or tried to bake), ask for stories about when I was their age, and share secrets they’d never dare tell their parents!
They were noisy, messy, and my joy! On my last birthday, I had ten kids and their parents crammed around my little table, the former singing off-key and eating too much cake! It was the best birthday I’d had in years!
One chilly afternoon, Ben looked up at me with his big brown eyes and asked, “Mr. Stewart, where’s your family? Do they come to visit you?”
I smiled, patted his little shoulder, and said, “They’re busy kiddo. Everyone’s busy these days.”
“That’s sad that they can’t make time to come hang out with a kind old man like yourself who always has a big smile on his face.”
That night, alone with my thoughts, the truth felt heavier than usual.
I’d been a good father and a decent enough grandfather, but time had made me just another name on a holiday card, a number in the family tree. And that’s when the idea struck me.
If they wouldn’t come for birthdays or holidays, well, maybe they’d come if they thought they’d missed their last chance!
I decided to teach them a little life lesson that they’d never forget. I was done being nice!
A few days later, with the help of the kids who were delighted by the mischief, I put together invitations for my children and grandchildren. Of course, I got the children’s parents’ permission first for this project.
“You are invited to the memorial of Stewart Ellison,” the invitations read, with the date, time, and local venue set for the following Saturday.
I made sure to add a little hook at the end: “Someone in attendance will be announcing the division of inheritance.”
I knew my family wouldn’t ignore that!
The morning of the “funeral,” I dressed in my best suit, straightened my tie, and headed over to the cemetery with the kids, who were practically bouncing with excitement.