Old Lady McCaffrey was a bitter old hag. Even her children eventually stopped coming by. The holiday invitations dried up a long time ago. Those that didn’t know Old Lady McCaffrey would think her rent controlled East Village apartment was filled with rapacious old cats. But Old Lady McCaffrey was so mean, that she couldn’t care for anything. Even her house plants would quiver at the sight of her. The venom in which she spoke could top any slimy politician, celebrity gossiper or downright criminal. Her insight into a persons deepest insecurity or darkest secret was as keen as her sense of hearing. For someone so close to death, Old Lady McCaffrey could hear the faintest whispers or the quietest disclosure of personal information.

But when the time finally came and she held her last hateful breath, her sons showed up the next day to sign the right papers and speak to the proper people. As if she had it planned to a ‘T’, Old Lady McCaffrey had $23.83 left in her bank account to which she so graciously bestowed to her eldest son.

No tear was shed nor regret uttered when the sons were to box up the clothes and rusty kitchen equipment from Old Lady McCaffrey’s tenement apartment, that she lived in for 83 years. Not one memory or trinket was exhumed from the house to be passed on to the next generation. The sons just left everything downstairs on the street to get carted off.

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