DH and I have an appointment scheduled next week to write our wills. Actually, we wrote one years ago when we were first married--before our daughter was born. We kept intending to update the documents but never could find the time to do so.
Read something about inheritances in Texas last week that spurred me to action. Because my husband has three children (wonderful, loving kids I've helped raise as my own), if my husband died, his half of community property would go to the children meaning I would only own half of the property I've worked to accumulate. I could live in my house until I died, but it wouldn't really be mine. It would be half mine and half theirs.
Didn't seem right to me since we've sacrificed a lot and put the kids through college. They have great futures ahead of them in which they can amass their own assets, houses, etc.
So DH and I talked. I bit the bullet and made the appointment. Today I went through the house and asked our daughter to designate the items of furniture and art she specifically wanted. It was interesting to see what held value for her and why. Most of everything she wanted has sentimental rather than intrinsic worth. We discussed how we would like our "estate" disposed of and said she would be named executrix and held accountable for carrying out our wishes. It was certainly a sobering conversation for both of us.
Later, she came to me and stooped down (she's 5'9"; I'm 5'1"--go figure) and embraced me. Brokenly, she said, "I just wish you and Daddy could live forever."
Me too, Sweetie.
If I could be healthy and look good. (Who wants to look like a crone?)
But life doesn't work that way.
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