When I first told my family I didn’t want children, I was twenty-seven. They laughed and said I’d change my mind “when the right man came along.”
At thirty-five, the teasing turned into pity.
By forty, they just called it sad.
Last year, after my father passed away, I hosted our first family dinner since the funeral. I handed everyone an envelope — copies of my will.
They thought I was being dramatic.
Until I explained that everything I owned — my savings, my house, my estate — was going not to my nieces or nephews, but to a scholarship foundation I’d started.
A fund for young women who choose a different path. Women who say no to expectations and yes to themselves.
The silence was immediate.
“So we mean nothing to you?” my sister asked.
“You’d rather give it to strangers than your own blood?” my mother added.
“Not strangers,” I replied. “Women who remind me of who I needed when I was younger.”
They called me selfish. Cold. Even accused me of “feminist nonsense.”
I let them talk.
As everyone was leaving, my nephew hugged me and quietly said, “If I ever have a daughter, I hope she meets someone like you.”
That was the only kindness I heard all night.
Now I’m starting to wonder if he’s the one person who deserves to be written into my will.
Note: This is a fictional story inspired by real events.
