When Mom fell ill, my sister suddenly acted like the devoted daughter. She moved in with Mom, shut me out, and insisted she was handling everything. But I knew my sister too well—her intentions were never genuine. I couldn’t stop her, but everything shifted when the doctor handed me Mom’s last note.
I used to wonder how two siblings could grow up in the same home and turn out so different. It became clearer once we reached adulthood. Mom raised us alone, and the older I got, the more I realized how heavy her burden was.
When I was small, we lived in a cramped apartment that barely kept out the cold. I remember hearing the winter wind through the cracks in the windows. Mom worked two jobs to keep us afloat, yet it was often still not enough. Some nights, we didn’t even have enough food—until our kind neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, showed up with a hot meal.
Back then, I didn’t fully understand what her kindness meant. I just knew my stomach wasn’t empty anymore. But I always noticed that Mom never joined us at the table. She would quietly claim she wasn’t hungry, but I could tell she was giving up her share so we could eat.
Eventually, life improved. Mom landed a better job, and slowly, we pulled ourselves out of poverty. She managed to save enough to buy a modest house, and later, both Samira and I went to college.
But Samira never seemed to remember the tough years the way I did. She had been too young to see what Mom endured. Maybe that’s why she grew up selfish, careless, and always relying on others. Even after finishing college, she refused to work, constantly begging Mom for money and spending it recklessly.
Then came the turning point. One evening, Mom called me out of the blue. Her voice was calm, but something about her tone unsettled me. When I arrived, she sat at the kitchen table, her hands looking frail, her eyes dim.
She told me she’d been diagnosed with a serious heart condition. The doctors said she might have a year with treatment, maybe just a couple of months without it. I was devastated. I hugged her and promised I’d be there for her. She asked me not to tell Samira yet, saying she wanted to handle it herself.
A month later, Mom finally broke the news to Samira—ironically right after Samira had come over to ask for money again. Not long after, Samira barged into my house, declaring I wasn’t allowed to visit Mom anymore. She accused me of only caring about Mom to secure an inheritance. Her words stung, but I knew she was projecting.
She insisted she was moving in with Mom to take care of her, and true to her word, she blocked me from visiting. She always had excuses—Mom was sleeping, Mom wasn’t feeling well, Mom was at the doctor. I had to rely on secret texts from Mom to know when Samira was out so I could sneak in visits.
One afternoon, Mom confided that Samira had told her I didn’t visit because I thought she was a burden. My heart broke hearing that lie. I explained the truth—that Samira had been keeping me away. Mom seemed torn, but she defended Samira, saying she was cooking, cleaning, and bringing her medicine. She even believed the illness had made Samira more caring. I didn’t argue but I knew better.
Worried about money, I offered to cover all medical expenses. I went straight to her doctor, Dr. Miller, and told him to send every bill to me. That way, Mom wouldn’t have to stress about finances—or about Samira’s spending.
From then on, I paid for everything, but I noticed the hospital bills were steep. I couldn’t figure out how Mom’s savings hadn’t dried up sooner, considering Samira’s habits.
As time passed, Mom grew weaker and eventually had to be hospitalized. Finally, Samira couldn’t keep me from her side anymore. I stayed with Mom every evening, reading to her and holding her hand. Samira, of course, practically moved into the hospital too, desperate for attention and favor.
One day, Samira pulled me aside. She claimed Mom’s money was running out, then hinted that I should help support her living costs as well. I refused, telling her I would never fund her selfish lifestyle.
Not long after, I got the dreaded call—Mom had passed away. My grief was overwhelming. At the hospital, Samira was already there with a lawyer, waving around a will that left everything to her. I was disgusted by her timing and her greed.
But then Dr. Miller called me into his office. He offered his condolences and handed me an envelope. Mom had entrusted it to him with my name on it: For My True Daughter.
I stepped outside, trembling as I opened it. Inside was an updated will—one written after the document Samira had. In this will, Mom left everything to me, including an account I hadn’t known existed. The note attached, written in Mom’s familiar handwriting, read:
“I told you I understand everything. I can tell the difference between real care and selfish motives. That’s why I’m leaving everything to you, Nicole. Keep that kindness in your heart. I love you, Mom.”
Tears streamed down my face as I read her words. Even after death, Mom had protected me. I felt both heartache and gratitude, vowing to honor her memory by living as she did—with love, kindness, and strength.