He was worth more dead than alive. So was she. While the stock market rose and fell, death was a sure bet. The problem, as always, was timing.
By design, since he’d retired, he used their Social Security to cover their premiums, a happy trade-off initially, secure in the knowledge that one of them (Emily, most certainly) would receive the full lump-sum benefit, except now with their carrier’s annual increases, and since men didn’t live as long, his payments had ballooned so that with each month he continued to breathe he was losing money. So many of their investments were failing. True or not, it was especially galling to think that, as an asset, he was depreciating.
With all of their sunk costs, it was too late to get out, though occasionally their agent pitched him on converting to whole life. The idea was tempting—having access to the equity they’d built up over the decades—but if they switched they’d lose a good bit of it, and at their age borrowing money, even from themselves, was dangerous. The premiums for whole life were also higher, the original source of his discontent.
The prudent move, he knew, was to stay the course, yet every month he felt like a fool, mailing off a hefty check for himself and Emily, receiving nothing in return but another bill. As with any investment, he needed to take the long view, which, in this case—as in no other—was guaranteed. Overall, he thought, it was a small price to pay for a little peace of mind.