When you get to the stage that there are more funerals and prayer meetings than birthday parties to attend, you know that you have crossed the line that marks the declivity towards death. At the after-meal at one such prayer meeting in the home of a close relative, the post-lunch groups broke age-wise into huddles. While the generation Z was in one room bent over their devices, each communicating with other gen Zs, the over 70s were in another room, heads close together. We, in-betweens, looked after both before our own huddle. After two decades of work, the extended family has finally accepted the fact that I might know a bit about money and finances. So, I am summoned to the old gang to discuss Wills —“Monika ko bulao,” rings the command from the eldest silver. As I wade in, I find the group divided down the middle. One set is vociferous in their pro-Will stand and recommends handwritten Wills over an online standard format. The other group looks suspicious. They fear two things and are over-confident of a third. One, the acceptance of their end of time. Two, the fear of the kids not looking after them once the assets are earmarked. Three, they are confident that their kids will not fight over assets—however big or small—and that a Will is needed only if there is a dispute. “My kids will never fight” is almost a statement of faith about their own parenting skills.