I still keep three small handprints in a frame on the mantel. The grandkids made them in preschool the year I became their mom. “Nana’s little helpers,” they used to call themselves. Today those handprints are the only thing left that still feels warm in this empty house.
My name is Margaret “Maggie” Thompson. I am 72 years old. For 36 years I worked as a paralegal at a small law firm in suburban Phoenix, Arizona. I had a good 401(k), health insurance, and plans to retire at 65 and travel with my husband. Life was steady.
Then one rainy night in 2009 my daughter Sarah was killed instantly in a car accident on the interstate. She was 29. Her husband had left years earlier. The three children — ages 8, 6, and 3 — were suddenly orphans. The court asked me if I would take them. I didn’t even hesitate. “Of course. They’re my babies too.”
I quit my job the next week. The law firm gave me a small severance, but it was nothing compared to what I was giving up. I cashed out my entire 401(k) to pay off the small mortgage on Sarah’s house so the kids could stay in their home. I moved in with them the same day. I became their full-time mom, cook, driver, homework helper, and emotional rock.
The caregiving costs for three grieving children were enormous. Therapy sessions not covered by insurance. New school clothes every season. Sports, music lessons, braces for all three. Summer camps so they could feel normal. Medical bills when the middle one had asthma attacks. Groceries for growing boys and a girl who ate like a linebacker. I used every penny I had and then some.
I never bought new clothes for myself. I drove a 12-year-old minivan with 180,000 miles. I skipped my own dental cleanings and eye exams to make sure the kids had theirs. Long-term care insurance coverage? I let it lapse in 2011 to save $134 a month. I told myself we’d be okay.
The grandkids became my whole world. I helped with science projects, attended every soccer game, stayed up late braiding hair and reading bedtime stories. When the oldest graduated high school in 2019, I cried harder than anyone. “You did it, baby,” I whispered. “Your mom would be so proud.”
They all went to college or trade school. I helped with application fees, books, and the first semester’s rent. By the time the youngest moved out in 2023, my retirement savings strategy was completely gone. The house was paid off, but there was $11,400 left in the bank. Social Security gave me $1,680 a month. That was it.
Then my own body started to fail.
The years of stress, lifting kids, driving everywhere, and never sleeping more than five hours caught up. Arthritis in my knees and back. High blood pressure. A fall in the bathroom last year that left me with a fractured wrist. The doctor looked at my chart and said gently, “Maggie, you can’t live alone safely anymore. You need help with daily activities.”
The social worker mentioned assisted living costs in the U.S. — a nice place near the grandkids was $6,200 a month for the level of care I now need. I sat there and laughed through my tears. “I don’t even have $6,200 a year.”
The only solution is to sell the house — the house where I raised my daughter and then her children. The house where we baked Christmas cookies and cried on the couch after Sarah’s funeral. The house that holds every memory I have left.
The realtor is coming next week to take photos. I’ve started packing slowly. Every box feels like I’m packing up my heart.
My grandkids call every Sunday. They’re grateful. They say “Thank you, Nana” and “We love you.” But they have their own lives now — jobs, spouses, babies on the way. They can’t take me in. I wouldn’t ask them to.
Last night I sat on the floor of the youngest’s old bedroom and cried until I couldn’t breathe. I whispered to the empty walls, “I would do it all again, Sarah. Every single day. But I wish I had known how much it would cost me in the end.”
The long-term care insurance I let lapse would have changed everything. A financial advisor consultation last month confirmed it: if I had kept the policy, it would be paying $4,800 a month toward my care now. Instead, I’m selling the only home my family has known for 40 years.
I don’t regret raising the grandkids. They are the best part of my life. They are kind, successful, and loving. But the loneliness that comes with having given everything and now facing old age with almost nothing is a special kind of pain.
If you are over 50 and reading this, please do two things.
First, hug your children or grandchildren a little tighter tonight. Tell them you love them.
Second, look at your own retirement savings strategy and long-term care insurance coverage today. Don’t make the mistake I did and assume love will be enough to protect you in the end.
I still set out four place settings at Thanksgiving in my mind. I still hear their laughter in these rooms. Soon the house will belong to someone else, and I’ll be in a single room with a hospital bed and a window.
But the love I gave them lives on in their hearts. That part no one can take away.
Some nights I talk to Sarah in the dark. I tell her, “I kept our babies safe, sweetheart. They’re going to be okay. I just wish I had kept a little something for myself too.”
She doesn’t answer, but I like to think she understands.
The grandkids are coming next weekend to help me pack. We’ll cry together. We’ll laugh about old times. And then I’ll close the door on this chapter of my life and try to find peace in the next one.
I gave everything I had.
And I would do it again in a heartbeat.
That’s what a mother’s love — and a grandmother’s love — does.
It gives until there’s nothing left.
And somehow, that’s still enough.