Letters from Awriterstip – Week 8
The Grim Reaper’s Business Card...
Dear Readers,
My phone rang the other day, cutting through the quiet of my afternoon like a dull blade. I wasn’t expecting a call, and I wasn’t in the mood for one either. But I picked it up, half out of habit, half out of curiosity. The voice on the other end was crisp, polished, the kind that sounds like it’s been trained to smile through the receiver. It was the insurance company, calling about my life insurance policy, a policy I’d nearly forgotten about, tucked away in the back of my mind like an old receipt in a drawer.
“Sir, your policy renewal is coming up,” the woman said, her tone carrying that faint edge of authority, as if I’d already done something wrong just by existing. There’s something about the way insurance agents speak that makes you feel like you’re late for an appointment you didn’t know you had. It’s not just professionalism, it’s a calculated warmth, designed to nudge you into compliance.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. “When is my renewal date?” I asked, keeping my voice flat, not wanting to give her any leverage.
“September 29th,” she replied, quick and precise.
I glanced at the calendar on my desk. August 27th. A full month away. Thirty-three days, to be exact. I could feel the question forming before I even spoke it. “So why are you calling me now? Why so early?”
There was a pause, just long enough for me to sense her recalibrating. “Sir, if you renew now, it’s better,” she said, her voice still smooth but with a hint of insistence, like she was reading from a script she believed in.
“Better how?” I pressed. I wasn’t trying to be difficult, but I wasn’t about to let her steamroll me with vague promises. I’ve dealt with enough sales pitches to know they thrive on urgency, not reason.
Another pause, longer this time. Then, almost reluctantly, she admitted, “No benefit, sir.”
So I said…
“There’s no benefit now in life, and there won’t be a benefit in the afterlife, too; Someone else will get the benefit after I’m gone, Right?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Not a polite chuckle, but a real, sharp laugh that startled even me. No benefit. If I renewed today, I wouldn’t get anything extra. If I waited until the actual renewal date, I’d lose nothing. So why the rush? Why the call, the polished tone, the subtle pressure? I told her as much, my voice carrying a mix of amusement and irritation. “If there’s no benefit, why should I pay you now?”
She didn’t have an answer for that. Just a faint, “Well, sir, it’s just to remind you…” before trailing off into the kind of silence that admits defeat. I thanked her, told her I’d think about it, and hung up. But the conversation didn’t end there, not in my head.
As I sat there, the irony of it all started to sink in, like a stone dropping into deep water. Life insurance. The name itself is a lie, a slick marketing trick dressed up as compassion. It’s not about life at all; it’s about death. It’s a contract that only pays out when you’re gone, when you’re no longer around to care. If I live, I get nothing. If I die, I get nothing. Someone else, my family, my kids, might see the money, but me? The one paying year after year, month after month, faithfully writing checks or watching automatic withdrawals drain my account? I never see a dime. I never get a thank-you note, a pat on the back, or a single reward for staying alive, for keeping up my end of the bargain.
That’s when it hit me: life insurance isn’t the business of life. It’s the business of death. It’s a transaction built on the inevitability of your end, a bet the company makes that you’ll keep paying until you can’t anymore. And when you’re gone, they’ll hand over a check to someone else, maybe with a condolence letter written in the same polished tone as that phone call.
The whole system is designed to profit from your absence, to thrive on the moment you stop breathing.
I stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at the street below. Cars moved slowly, people walked with purpose or none at all, and the world kept turning, indifferent to the thoughts spiralling in my head. I thought about the woman on the phone, her voice so calm, so professional. She wasn’t the villain here; she was just doing her job.
But that job, that system, it’s built on a grim truth: they want my money now, and they’re banking on my death later. Every premium I pay is a reminder of that.
Every call, every email, every “friendly reminder” about my renewal is a nudge from the Grim Reaper himself, dressed in a suit, sitting at a desk, smiling through the phone.
The more I thought about it, the more absurd it felt. They don’t reward you for living. They don’t send you a bonus for staying healthy, for paying on time, or for being a loyal customer. There’s no discount for surviving another year, no celebration for dodging the Reaper’s scythe. The only way this deal “works” is if I die. That’s the payout. That’s the moment the company’s been waiting for, the moment they’ve calculated with actuarial tables and risk assessments. They’re not rooting for me to live a long, happy life; they’re just waiting for me to stop.
And yet, I’ll keep paying. Not because I believe in the system, not because I think it’s fair, but because I love my children. Because I want them to have something if the worst happens.
Because that’s the trap, isn’t it?
They know we’ll pay, not for ourselves, but for the people we love. They know our sense of duty, our fear of leaving our families vulnerable, will keep us hooked. They sell us death disguised as security, fear packaged as responsibility. And we buy it, every time, because what’s the alternative? Let your kids, your spouse, your loved ones fend for themselves if you’re gone? No. We pay because we have to, because love leaves us no choice.
I walked back to my desk, picked up the calendar, and circled September 29th. One month. One more month of life before the renewal, before another year of payments to a company that’s betting against me. I thought about the woman on the phone again, her voice echoing in my mind. “If you renew now, it’s better.” Better for whom? Not for me. Better for her, for her targets, her commissions, her company’s bottom line. That’s the game. They create urgency where none exists, pressure where there’s no need. They call you a month early, two months early, because every day you pay sooner is a day they hold your money longer. It’s not about your life, it’s about their profit.
Hey, wait a minute, or are they just calling to check whether I’m alive or dead, and when I mean by death was it natural death or death by suicide, coz with suicide no one gets anything. But only the insurance company gets everything.
As a matter of fact, even at funerals, people ask whether the dead have left anything for the family.
So it’s better to be alive and have a natural death so that someone else will get something.
Someone you love…
I started thinking about all the other ways we’re sold death in the name of security. Car insurance, health insurance, home insurance, all of it built on the premise that something terrible might happen, and you’d better be ready. But life insurance is the starkest of them all, the one that lays bare the truth: you’re paying for a future you won’t see. You’re handing over your hard-earned money, year after year, for a moment you’ll never witness. And the companies? They’re not your partners, not your friends. They’re the house in a casino, and you’re the gambler who can’t walk away.
I thought about my kids again, their faces flashing in my mind. My daughter, with her sharp wit and endless questions. My son, with his quiet strength and quick smile. They’re why I keep paying, why I’ll keep circling dates on calendars and answering calls from polished voices. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it. It doesn’t mean I have to pretend it’s fair. Because every time I write that check, every time I see that deduction in my bank account, I feel it, the weight of a system that profits from my mortality, that thrives on the inevitability of my end.
And when I think of it like that, the insurance company doesn’t feel like an office full of cubicles and spreadsheets. It feels like something else entirely, like the Grim Reaper himself, sitting at a desk, dialling my number with a polite smile, reminding me that my time is ticking. He’s not wearing a black cloak or carrying a scythe, not in this modern age. He’s in a suit, speaking in a calm, professional tone, but the message is the same: “We want your money now, and your soul later.”
That’s the truth no one says out loud. Life insurance isn’t about protecting your life; it’s about capitalising on your death. It’s a business model built on loss, a contract that only pays out when you’re no longer here to claim it. And yet, we sign up, we pay up, because we’re human.
After all, we love. After all, we want to believe we’re doing the right thing.
So I’ll keep paying. I’ll circle September 29th, and when the day comes, I’ll renew the policy. Not because I trust the system, not because I believe in their promises, but because I believe in my kids. Because even if the game is rigged, even if the Reaper’s sitting at the other end of the phone, I’ll play it for them. But I won’t forget what it is. I won’t pretend it’s anything other than what it is: the Grim Reaper’s business card, handed to me with a smile, every time the phone rings.
Until next time,
—Jacob M. / Awriterstip
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