After my wife Ellie passed 17 years ago, I was left in solitude, hoping my family would visit. But years passed with only the occasional card or awkward phone call. Meanwhile, the neighborhood children—Ben, Sasha, Emma, and others—began visiting regularly. Their laughter and energy became my solace. They’d bring cookies, share stories, and brighten my days.

One day, Ben asked, “Mr. Stewart, where’s your family?” His innocent question made me realize the painful truth—my own family had all but forgotten me. That’s when the idea struck me. If they wouldn’t come for holidays or birthdays, maybe they’d show up if they thought they’d lost me forever.

With the help of the kids, I sent out fake funeral invitations, claiming there would be a division of inheritance. The following Saturday, I dressed in my best suit, waiting by the local cemetery, surrounded by my little band of loyal visitors.

Soon enough, my children and grandchildren arrived, confused and uncomfortable. When they saw me—alive and smiling—they were stunned. I greeted them, saying, “I wanted to see how quickly you’d show up if you thought you’d missed your chance.”

I then began “dividing” my inheritance, awarding the neighborhood kids for their time and kindness. My family was left speechless. But as I explained, family isn’t just about blood—it’s about love and time spent together.

My kids apologized, and for the first time in years, I felt whole again, surrounded by both my family and the neighbors who’d become my true loved ones.