Number four is the thought that someone else—namely their own children—will get to enjoy what they built. It eats them alive knowing that once they are gone, their wealth, house, and possessions will belong to people they secretly resented for simply existing without fear of them. They can’t stand the idea that their children may live freely, laugh loudly, or find peace with the very money and assets they used to control them through. To a narcissist, legacy is not about love or family; it’s about total ownership. And nothing terrifies them more than losing it. If it were possible, they would drag every bit of their wealth into the grave with them. They would rather see it burn than see someone else happy with it. Even in their final moments, can you believe they fantasize about curses, hidden wills, or ways to make sure that nobody gets the amount without suffering first? That’s how deeply envy runs. It turns inward, poisoning even their love for their own blood. As they fade, they realize that life will go on without them. Their children will smile again. The home will echo with the peace they never allowed. And that, for a narcissist, is the final insult—knowing that in death, the control they craved slips through their fingers, and the world they tried to dominate finally becomes free of them.
The last regret is the realization that no one fears them anymore. Their whole life was built on domination. The way they could walk into a room and everyone would go quiet. The way a single glare could make someone doubt themselves. My grandfather fed on that power; it made him feel alive. But lying there now, weak and unrecognized, they see it’s all gone. The same people who once tiptoed around their moods now look at them with pure indifference—even with pity. And that destroys them. They try to command like they used to, but their voice does not carry weight anymore. The anger, the manipulation, and the threats—none of it works. People don’t care. The nurses ignore their tantrums. Their family just nods and quietly walks away. For the first time, their presence does not change anything at all. It doesn’t matter how loud they were, how cruel they became. The world no longer bends around them. And that is when it hits them—the only kind of love they ever knew. Now that it is gone, they are nothing. Just another sick body waiting to die. No one is afraid or impressed. And no one is listening to them. The power they thought made them immortal dies before they do. And as they lie there, staring at faces that no longer flinch, they finally feel the one thing—the one emotion they spent their whole life running from: absolute powerlessness.
And that is a befitting reply to their narcissistic ego, which thought it would never fade away or lose. I would say death, in some cases, is the best teacher, and what I shared with you is a prime example of that.
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