“I hope she dies before the wedding so I don’t have to deal with her anymore,” my granddaughter Jessica said. “Then I’d get the inheritance, too, and could plan the wedding I actually want.”
Those were the words that changed everything. Words spoken by my own granddaughter about me, words I was never supposed to hear.
I was sitting in my kitchen on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, going through the final invoices for Jessica’s dream wedding when I heard her voice drifting from the living room. She was on the phone, her tone casual. She had no idea I was there.
“I can’t wait until this wedding is over,” she sighed. “Grandma keeps trying to give her opinions about everything. It’s so embarrassing. My friends keep asking why she’s so involved.”
My heart started to sink, but I told myself she was just stressed. Then, I heard her laugh—a sound that used to bring me such joy. “I know it sounds awful, but she’s got to have at least a million dollars saved up. If she died now, I’d get that money, plus not have to deal with her interfering anymore.”
I quietly stood up, walked to my home office, and pulled out my business filing cabinet. Twenty years of running a restaurant had taught me to read contracts carefully. As I flipped through the wedding agreements, I realized something Jessica had never bothered to understand. I wasn’t just the grandmother paying for this wedding; I was the primary client on every single contract. I picked up my phone and smiled for the first time in weeks. It was time to make some calls.
But let me start from the beginning, so you understand how someone I loved more than life itself could wish for my death while I was spending my life savings on her happiness.
My name is Betty Richardson. I’m 68 years old. I’ve been a widow for three years, ever since my husband, Harold, passed away. He left me well-provided for. Jessica is my son Michael’s daughter, my only granddaughter, and she’s always been the light of my life. Before I retired, I owned and operated a family restaurant called Betty’s Kitchen for twenty years. I learned how to manage vendors, read contracts, and handle business. I wasn’t just some sweet old grandmother who didn’t understand how the world worked. I knew business.
When Jessica got engaged to her boyfriend, Brad, last year, they started planning a small, intimate wedding. They had saved about $5,000. But Jessica kept talking about this dream wedding she’d seen in magazines. One evening, she was at my house, sighing over pictures of elaborate receptions. “I wish we could afford something like this,” she said.
That’s when I made the decision. “Sweetheart,” I said, “what if Grandma helped make your dream wedding come true?”
The look on her face was pure joy. We spent the next month planning. Her dream wedding would cost $80,000. I could afford it. I put down $15,000 in deposits and signed all the vendor contracts as the primary client: the beautiful country club, the elegant catering, the professional photographer, the florist, even the string quartet. The remaining $65,000 would be due thirty days before the wedding. My son and his wife seemed so grateful. I thought I was giving her the most wonderful gift.
About two months into the planning, I started noticing subtle changes. It began during a meeting with the florist. I had suggested adding white roses to the bridal bouquet, my own wedding flowers.
Jessica’s face immediately soured. “Grandma, that’s so old-fashioned,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We’re going for a more modern look.”
I felt embarrassed, but I told myself she was just being a perfectionist. But the dismissive attitude continued. Every suggestion I made was met with, “That’s not the vibe we’re going for,” or, “My friends would think that’s weird.”
The worst part was how she started excluding me. She moved a cake tasting to an earlier time without telling me. She began scheduling vendor meetings on her own, making decisions about thousands of dollars I was spending. The breaking point came when I discovered she had removed six of my closest friends from the guest list.
“We needed to make cuts somewhere,” she shrugged when I confronted her. “And honestly, your friends won’t really understand the type of wedding we’re having.”
“Jessica, these are important people in my life,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “If I’m paying for this wedding, I should be able to invite my friends.”
“Grandma, you’re being dramatic,” she replied. “It’s not about you.”
I was good enough to pay for everything, but not good enough to have any say. The pattern was clear: Jessica wanted my money, but she didn’t want me.
Four weeks before the wedding, I went to Jessica’s apartment to finalize the wedding favors. I arrived a few minutes early and let myself in with the spare key she’d given me for emergencies. I could hear her on the phone in the living room. I quietly stepped inside, planning to wait in the kitchen until she finished. But I couldn’t help but hear what she was saying.
“Sarah, I’m so exhausted,” she was saying to her maid of honor. “And the worst part is dealing with my grandmother. She keeps trying to give her opinions about everything. The flowers, the music… it’s so embarrassing.”
I froze.
“She thinks because she’s paying, she gets to have opinions,” Jessica continued. “I wish she would just write the check and disappear. She’s ruining my perfect day.”
I gripped the kitchen counter, feeling dizzy. This was how she really felt.
“You know what the worst part is?” Jessica continued. “She acts like she’s doing me this huge favor, but honestly, she’s probably just lonely and desperate for attention. Like, get a hobby, you know?”
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
“Sometimes I think about what it would be like if she just wasn’t around anymore,” she said casually. “Like if she died tomorrow, I wouldn’t have to deal with all her interference.” She wasn’t done. “Actually, that would solve a lot of problems. I know it sounds terrible, but think about it. If she died before the wedding, I’d inherit whatever money she has left. She’s got to have at least a million dollars. I could plan the wedding I actually want.”
She paused, and I could hear her pacing. “Honestly, I hope she dies before the wedding so I don’t have to deal with her anymore.”
There it was. My beloved granddaughter was literally wishing for my death.
“She’s so naive about business stuff,” Jessica continued. “She thinks because she ran some little restaurant, she understands contracts. But she doesn’t realize that once you sign with vendors, you’re locked in. She can’t back out now without losing all the deposits. She’s trapped.”
I quietly put the wedding favor samples on her kitchen counter and wrote a quick note: Had an emergency. We’ll talk later. Love, Grandma. Then I left. As I walked to my car, I kept thinking about what she’d said. She thought I was trapped. She was about to learn how wrong she was.
That night, I barely slept. The next morning, I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the wedding planning binder. Then I remembered something from my restaurant days. I walked to my home office and pulled out my filing cabinet. I’d always kept meticulous records, always read every contract carefully.
I pulled out every single wedding contract and spread them across my desk. One by one, I read through them, paying special attention to the cancellation clauses. What I discovered made me smile for the first time in 24 hours.
Every contract was signed by me as the primary client. This meant I wasn’t just paying; I was the actual customer, the one with decision-making authority, the one with cancellation rights. Since the wedding was still four weeks away, I was well within the cancellation window for most services.
I started doing the math. I’d already paid $15,000 in deposits. If I canceled everything now, I’d lose most of those, but I’d avoid the remaining $65,000 in final payments. $15,000 was a lot to lose, but it was better than throwing away another $65,000 on someone who wished I was dead. This wasn’t really about the money. This was about dignity.
The next morning, I woke up with a clarity I hadn’t felt in months. I sat down at my desk with the stack of cancellation letters my lawyer had prepared. I started with the venue, Maple Ridge Country Club.
“Mrs. Patterson,” I said to the events coordinator, “this is Betty Richardson. I need to cancel the wedding reception.”
“Oh my, Mrs. Richardson, I’m so sorry to hear that. Is everything all right?”
“There have been some family circumstances that have made it necessary.” I would forfeit my deposit, but I wouldn’t be responsible for the remaining $12,000.
One by one, I methodically called every vendor: the caterer, the florist, the photographer, the string quartet. Each conversation was professional and brief. By noon, I had canceled $80,000 worth of wedding services. I’d lost $15,000 in deposits, but I’d saved $65,000. Then I sat back and waited.
The first call came two days later. “Grandma,” Jessica’s voice was shaky. “I just got the strangest call from Maple Ridge. They said you canceled the reception. There must be some mistake.”
“There’s no mistake, Jessica,” I said calmly. “I canceled all the wedding vendors yesterday.”
“What? But… why?”
“I heard your conversation with Sarah on Tuesday. The one where you said you hoped I would die before the wedding so you could get my inheritance.”
The silence on the other end was deafening.
“Grandma, I… I was just stressed. I didn’t mean—”
“You calculated my net worth, Jessica. You said I was naive and trapped by the contracts. You called me an embarrassing burden.”
“I was just venting!”
“You meant every word. And you were wrong about something important. I’m not trapped. I was the primary client, which means I had every right to cancel. And I’m not naive about business. I spent twenty years successfully running a restaurant.”
“But Grandma, the wedding is in three weeks! What am I supposed to do?”
“That’s not my problem to solve anymore, Jessica. You wanted to plan your own wedding without my interference. Now you can.”
The calls from the family started within hours. Disbelief, anger, desperate attempts to get me to change my mind. “Mom, you can’t do this to Jessica,” my son, Michael, said.
“She’s 24 years old, Michael. Old enough to understand that wishing someone dead while spending their money has consequences.”
The most dramatic call came from Jessica herself the next day, sobbing hysterically. “Grandma, I called all the vendors. They want $65,000 to reinstate the services! We don’t have that kind of money!”
“I know exactly what you can afford, Jessica. You were planning a $5,000 wedding before I offered to help. You can still have that wedding.”
“But all my friends are expecting this beautiful wedding!”
“Then you’ll have to explain to your friends why the plans changed. Perhaps you can tell them you wished your grandmother was dead, and she decided not to fund your dream wedding anymore.”
Two weeks later, I received a wedding invitation in the mail. Jessica and Brad were getting married at the local community center. I didn’t attend. Instead, I was on a cruise ship in Alaska, watching glaciers from the deck of my luxury suite. I’d used the money I’d saved from canceling the wedding to give myself the trip of a lifetime.
When I returned home, I found a thank you card in my mailbox. It was a simple card with a photo from her wedding. Inside, she’d written, Dear Grandma, thank you for everything you taught me about respect and consequences. I understand now why you made the decision you did. I hope someday I can earn back your trust and your love. Love, Jessica.
I kept the card, but I didn’t call her. Some lessons take time to fully sink in. Three months later, I updated my will. Jessica’s inheritance went to several charities instead. I also established a scholarship fund for young women starting their own businesses.
I learned something important during this whole experience. It’s never too late to demand respect. At 68, I discovered that I still had the power to make choices that honored my own dignity. Jessica got married, just not the wedding she’d planned. And I got something more valuable: I got my self-respect back.