They Didn’t Leave Much, But They Left Everything That Matters
On lobster pins, letting go, and the legacy that doesn’t fit in a will
It was a lobster pin that was my most recent undoing.
“Did Nana have a thing for lobsters?”
I had to snap myself back to the moment and focus on my daughter. I’d been half-lost in the clutter on my mom’s kitchen counter, sorting through an avalanche of junk mail and unopened newsletters.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“She’s got like eight lobster pins in her jewelry box. Did she collect lobsters?”
Emily held one out to me.
Sure enough, it was a lobster pin.
I promptly burst into tears and started laughing at the same time.
All the Stuff
Going through my parents’ belongings is part trip down memory lane and part episode of Hoarders.
My dad’s drawers—untouched since he passed—are a time capsule of his humor, hobbies, and deeply questionable organizational skills. There are commemorative coins, bumper stickers, lapel pins, and scraps of paper with terrible jokes written in his barely legible scrawl.
I could map a historical timeline just with the hats in the closet.
It was fun, in a way. Like flipping through a scrapbook in 3D—one that smells faintly of Old Spice and stale cigarette smoke.
My mom’s jewelry box is the same kind of treasure trove. There are sorority pins, rosary beads, costume pieces and keepsakes—funky 70s glam, 90s western flair, classic gold and pearls. Every era she lived through had its signature sparkle.
The rest of the house? Highball glasses from a bygone cocktail era, delicate china, a stunning punch bowl, and enough fake flowers and used vases to outfit a Hobby Lobby clearance aisle.
Their “important documents” include expired warranties, stock certificates from companies that no longer exist, and horse show programs from 1988.
“Decide how to appraise any valuable assets,” read one of the helpful suggestions in the estate checklist from the funeral home.
So I tried. I made the list. Began an inventory of sorts.
And somewhere in the process, it hit me:
This stuff isn’t valuable.
It’s worn-out furniture. Bookcases and card tables probably bought secondhand in the ’70s. With the exception of a few bronze sculptures, not a single thing in that house is worth stealing.
But it’s theirs.
And to them, it was priceless.
Which is what makes letting go so hard.
Rich, But Not Wealthy
Sorting through their things, trying to ready the house for sale, I realized something that knocked the wind out of me:
My parents were rich. Even if they were never wealthy.
They were married for fifty-four years, and they loved each other deeply.
I saw it—in the way my dad would spin my mom around the living room to an old Johnny Mathis song, or in the silly grin he’d wear when he found a pair of earrings he knew she’d love.
I heard it—in my mom’s stories about how they met, or their travel adventures together.
And I felt it—through the way they loved me and my siblings. Fully. Fiercely. Unapologetically.
They were rich in friendship, too.
I remember falling asleep to the sound of laughter and mild pinochle-related shouting as they played cards with friends into the early hours.
There were golf games, tailgates, dinner parties, cocktail parties, picnics, and more card games than I can count.
They didn’t just host community—they lived in it.
They traveled—not lavishly, but intentionally.
They saved. They prioritized.
One of my mom’s favorite trips was to Hawaii. She’d light up when she talked about the hot sand under her feet, the rhythm of the waves. I swear I can still hear her describing it.
They were rich in values, too.
They never tried to keep up with the Joneses. (And, yes, we literally had neighbors named Jones.)
My parents didn’t buy things to impress people. They didn’t act a certain way to fit in. They knew who they were and what mattered most—and they lived their lives accordingly.
Their values were simple and steady: servant leadership, honesty, kindness, family, humor, connection, spirituality, and financial independence.
They weren’t perfect, not by a long shot. But they never stopped trying to be good humans.
My high school boyfriend once told me my dad was the yardstick he measured himself by when he became a father.
And when my mom passed, my Facebook feed flooded with comments about how kind, caring, and compassionate she was. People remembered her for how she made them feel—seen, loved, welcomed.
And because they lived frugally, carefully, and intentionally, they were able to leave each of us kids a financial gift.
But that’s not the legacy that matters most.
Legacy Isn’t the Stuff
Maybe the most important thing my parents ever taught me is this:
The richness of a life isn’t measured by the monetary value of what’s left behind.
It’s in how you make people feel.
How you show up.
The time you spend with the ones you love.
What you model.
How you serve.
And how deeply you care.
The lobster pin—a quirky trinket tucked away—is now a symbol of all of that.
Of their friendship. Their humor. Their joy.
Of the love they gave, the life they lived, and the richness they passed on without ever needing to say a word about it.
Love given, received, and shared without question is the most valuable gift we can offer.
If you’ve walked this road too—sorting, grieving, remembering—you’re not alone.
The things that matter most rarely come with a price tag.
But they’re the ones we treasure forever.
