When our mother became ill, my sister suddenly transformed into the image of a devoted daughter. She moved in with Mom and shut me out completely, claiming she was handling everything. But I knew my sister well enough to realize her intentions were far from pure. I couldn’t stop her — until the day the doctor handed me a final note from Mom that changed everything.
Growing up, I could never understand how two children raised in the same home could turn out so differently. That became even clearer once we were adults. Our mother raised us on her own, and as I matured, I began to truly grasp how much she had sacrificed for us.
I remember the tiny apartment of my childhood — drafty in winter, with wind whistling through the cracks in the windows. Mom worked two jobs just to keep a roof over our heads, but even then, money was always tight.
Some nights, the cupboards were nearly bare. I’ll never forget when our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, would knock on the door, smiling warmly as she handed us a pot of steaming soup or a plate piled with pasta.
Back then, I didn’t fully appreciate the weight of her kindness — only that my stomach wasn’t empty anymore. But I noticed Mom never sat down to eat with us. She’d claim she wasn’t hungry, yet I knew she was giving up her portion so we could eat.
Life slowly improved. Mom found a better-paying job, and we eventually moved to a nicer house. My sister Samira and I both went to college. But unlike me, Samira didn’t seem to carry the memory of those lean years. She’d been too young to absorb the hardship.
Maybe that’s why she grew up spoiled, self-indulgent, and carefree.
Even after graduating, she refused to work, constantly asking Mom for money and spending it like it was endless.
Then came the day that changed everything. Mom called me unexpectedly.
“Is everything alright?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. I just need to talk to you,” she said.
Her tone stayed with me the entire drive over. Mom never called like that. When I arrived, the front door was ajar.
“Mom?” I called out.
“In the kitchen, honey,” she answered.
She was at the table with a cup of tea, her hands looking worn, her usually bright eyes clouded with fatigue.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, sitting down across from her.
Taking a deep breath, she said quietly, “I went to the doctor today. The news isn’t good.”
My heart thudded. “What happened?”
“It’s my heart,” she said. “They’ve given me about a year, at most.”
Her words felt like a physical blow. “There must be something they can do. I’ll pay for whatever it takes.”
“With treatment, I might have a year,” she said. “Without it… maybe two months.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “This can’t be real.”
“It is,” she said gently. “All those years of stress and overwork took their toll.”
I pulled her into a hug. “We’ll face this together, Mom. I’ll be here.”
“I know,” she murmured, stroking my hair like she used to when I was little. “Just… don’t tell Samira yet.”
“Why not? She’ll keep asking you for money instead of letting you use it for treatment,” I protested.
“She’s living off her new boyfriend right now, so we can have some peace for a while,” Mom said.
A month later, Mom told her. Samira had just come around to ask for money after breaking up with her boyfriend.
That same day, she barged into my home without knocking and sat on my couch.
“I don’t want you visiting Mom,” she declared.
“Are you insane? She’s sick. I’m going to visit her,” I shot back.
“I know what you’re trying to do — swoop in for her inheritance. But it won’t work,” she said.
“Unbelievable. I’m here for Mom, not her money. You’re just projecting your own motives,” I replied.
Samira rolled her eyes. “Mom always loved me more because she gave me more money. Now you’re trying to get something after she’s gone.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m visiting her whether you like it or not,” I said firmly.
“Don’t bother. I’m moving in with her to take care of everything,” she said.
“You? You’ve never taken care of anyone but yourself.”
She grabbed her bag. “I’ve always cared for Mom. And now, I’m not letting you in.” Then she left.
It turned out she meant it. Every time I tried to visit, Samira fed me an excuse — Mom was asleep, sick, or out.
So I texted Mom, asking her to tell me whenever Samira was away.
One afternoon, she messaged that Samira had gone to the mall. I bought groceries and went straight over.
Mom was lying on the couch, looking tired but smiling when she saw me.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Not bad. I’m getting by,” she said.
“I brought groceries — your favorite tea, some fruit.”
“Thank you,” she said, though her face grew serious. “Why haven’t you been visiting? Samira said you didn’t want to — that I’d become a burden.”
I froze. “She said what? That’s a lie! I’ve been trying, but she wouldn’t let me in. I came as soon as I could.”
“I see,” Mom said softly.
“And how is Samira? Is she actually helping?” I asked.
“Yes… she’s here most of the time. She cooks, cleans, gives me my medicine. I think my illness has changed her for the better.”
“Mm-hmm,” I muttered. “Do you have enough money?”
“For now. But Samira spends a lot. I worry we won’t have enough for medicine soon,” she admitted.
“Don’t worry. I’ll speak to the doctor and take care of everything,” I promised.
Later, at the hospital, I told Dr. Miller, “From now on, send all bills to me.”
“I thought Samira was paying for everything,” he said.
“She’s using Mom’s money, but also spending plenty herself. I don’t want Mom stressed about finances.”
We arranged it, but soon the bills shocked me — far higher than I expected. I didn’t know how Mom still had any funds left.
Her health declined. Eventually, she was hospitalized, and I could visit freely again. Samira practically moved into the hospital, watching me with resentment, trying to keep the upper hand.
One evening, she pulled me into the hallway. “Mom’s money is running out,” she said.
“I’m paying the medical bills. How can it be gone?” I asked.
“There are other expenses — food, utilities. And I have to live too,” she said, playing the victim.
“That’s your problem. I’m not supporting you,” I said and walked away.
A few days later, the call came. Mom had passed.
I rushed to the hospital. Samira and her lawyer were already there.
“Since I cared for her, all the inheritance is mine,” she said coldly, handing me a will.
I pushed it back. “She just died, and you’re talking about money?!”
“I’m avoiding conflict,” she replied flatly.
I stormed off to Dr. Miller’s office. His expression softened. “I’m so sorry. Your mother loved you more than anyone.”
He pulled out an envelope labeled in Mom’s handwriting: For My True Daughter.
I stepped outside, sat in a chair, and opened it.
Inside was a more recent, valid will leaving everything to me — along with an account I’d never known about, containing more money than I’d imagined.
Attached was a handwritten note:
I told you I understand everything. I know the difference between real care and selfish motives. That’s why I’m leaving everything to you, Nicole. Keep kindness and humanity in your heart. I love you. — Mom
Tears streamed down my face. Even after she was gone, Mom had protected me.
I promised then and there to live as she had — with love, integrity, and strength.