When Mom fell seriously ill, everything changed. My sister, Samira, who had always been selfish and carefree, suddenly became the perfect daughter. She moved in with Mom, acting as if she was taking care of everything. She even told me to stay away, claiming she had everything under control. But deep down, I knew Samira too well. Her motives were never pure. I couldn’t stop her, but everything shifted when the doctor handed me Mom’s final note.
Growing up, I never really understood how two children from the same family could be so different. But as Samira and I grew older, the differences became clearer. Our mom had raised us alone, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized how difficult it must have been for her.
I’ll never forget our tiny apartment when I was younger. It was so cold during the winters, and I could hear the wind howling through the cracks in the windows. Mom worked two jobs just to make sure we had a roof over our heads, but there was never enough.
Sometimes, we didn’t even have enough food to eat. I remember those nights when Mrs. Jenkins, our kind neighbor, would bring us a warm dinner. She would smile and hand over a pot of steaming soup or a plate of pasta. I didn’t fully understand then how much that meant. All I knew was that I wasn’t hungry anymore.
But what really stuck with me was how Mom never ate with us. She would sit quietly, pretending she wasn’t hungry, but I could tell. She gave everything she had to make sure we were okay. Over time, though, things got better. Mom found a better job, and slowly, we climbed out of poverty.
Eventually, we moved into a nicer house, and Samira and I both went to college. But Samira didn’t remember those hard times the way I did. She was too young to understand the struggles Mom had faced. Maybe that’s why she turned out the way she did – a little selfish, a little too carefree.
Even after graduating from college, Samira didn’t want to work. She kept asking Mom for money, spending it like it was endless. But everything changed one day when Mom called me and asked me to come over.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, feeling a little nervous.
“Yes, yes. I just need to talk to you,” Mom replied, her voice soft but filled with worry.
I could feel the tension in the air as I drove over. Mom never called me like this before. When I arrived, the front door was open, so I stepped inside.
“Mom?” I called out.
“I’m in the kitchen, honey,” she called back.
I walked into the kitchen and saw her sitting at the table, holding a cup of tea. Her hands rested on the table, looking tired. Her eyes, usually so full of life, seemed dimmer.
“What happened? What did you want to talk about?” I asked, sitting down next to her.
Mom took a deep breath. “I went to the doctor today. Unfortunately, I have bad news,” she said softly.
My heart pounded in my chest. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“My heart,” she whispered. “They gave me a year, at best.”
The words hit me like a ton of bricks. “Isn’t there anything that can be done? I’ll pay for anything, just tell me,” I said, my voice trembling.
“A year, maybe two with treatment. Without it, I might not even last two months,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“No, no, this can’t be true,” I whispered, my eyes welling up with tears.
“But it is,” she said, looking at me with sad eyes. “All the stress, all the overwork… it caught up with me.”
I couldn’t hold back anymore. I moved closer and hugged her tightly. “We’ll get through this, Mom. I’m here. You’re not alone.”
“I know,” she said softly, stroking my hair the way she did when I was little. “But for now, don’t tell Samira. Not yet.”
“Why not? She’ll just ask for money when we need it for your treatment,” I said.
“She’s living with her new boyfriend right now,” Mom explained. “So we don’t need to worry for a while.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “This is wrong.”
“I’ll tell her myself when the time is right,” Mom said gently.
A month later, Mom told Samira about her illness. Samira had come over, once again asking for money after breaking up with her boyfriend. After their conversation, Samira stormed over to my house. She didn’t even knock. She just barged in and plopped herself down on the couch.
“I don’t want you visiting Mom,” she said coldly.
“Are you out of your mind? Mom is sick. She needs me! Someone needs to help her!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“I know why you’re so concerned about her,” Samira said with a smirk. “You want all her inheritance for yourself. But that’s not going to happen.”
“Are you serious? I don’t care about the money. I care about helping Mom!” I shot back. “Or are you judging everyone by your own standards?”
Samira rolled her eyes. “I know that’s not true. Mom always loved me more because she gave me more money. So now you want to get something after she’s gone.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m going to visit Mom. She needs me,” I said, standing my ground.
“Don’t worry about it,” Samira said, standing up. “I’ve already made plans. I’m moving in with Mom. I’m the one who’s going to take care of her.”
“You? Since when are you so caring?” I asked, feeling a rush of anger. “You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself.”
“That’s not true!” she shot back. “I’ve always cared about Mom. And now, she needs me.”
She grabbed her bag and left without another word. I stood there in shock, staring at the door.
I knew Samira was doing this for herself. Only for herself.
Sure enough, Samira didn’t let me visit Mom. Every time I tried, she made up excuses: “Mom’s sleeping,” “Mom doesn’t feel well,” or “Mom went to the doctor.” So I texted Mom and asked her to let me know when Samira wasn’t around so I could visit.
One afternoon, I got the message I’d been waiting for. Samira had gone to the mall, and I could visit. I quickly stopped by the grocery store, bought some of Mom’s favorite things, and headed to her house.
When I arrived, Mom was lying on the couch, watching TV. She looked tired, but her eyes brightened when she saw me.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Not too bad. I’m managing,” she said with a weak smile.
“I brought you some groceries,” I said, placing the bags on the floor. “Your favorite tea and some fresh fruit.”
“Thank you, honey,” she said, but her face became serious. “Why haven’t you been visiting me? Samira said you didn’t want to because I’d become a burden.”
My heart sank. “She said what?!” I couldn’t believe it. “I haven’t visited because Samira wouldn’t let me! She kept making excuses. As soon as I could, I came.”
“I see,” Mom said quietly.
“How is Samira helping you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
“She’s here almost all the time. She cooks, cleans, and brings me medicine,” Mom said. “I think my illness has changed her for the better.”
“Yeah, right,” I muttered under my breath. “But do you have enough money? For everything?”
“For now, yes, but Samira spends a lot. I’m worried we won’t have enough for the medicine soon,” Mom said, her voice filled with concern.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle everything,” I said, determined.
“Alright, thank you,” she said with a tired smile.
I stayed with her for a while, talking about little things, not wanting to leave. But eventually, Mom said she was tired and wanted to go to bed. I helped her to her room gently.
“Nicole,” she said softly as she lay down. “I’ve lived a long life, and I understand everything.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded. I thought she was just tired.
I quietly left her house, but I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. I drove straight to the hospital.
I knocked on Dr. Miller’s office door, and after hearing, “Come in!” I entered.
“Hello, I’m Nicole, Martha’s daughter…” I began.
“Oh, you must be Nicole,” Dr. Miller said, smiling at me. “Please, have a seat. Martha talked about you often.”
I sat down. “I want to talk about Mom’s treatment. From now on, send all the bills to me,” I said, making sure he understood.
“I thought Samira was handling everything,” Dr. Miller said, looking a bit surprised.
“Yes, but she’s spending more than she should, and I don’t want Mom worrying about money,” I said.
“We can arrange that,” Dr. Miller said with a nod.
I felt some relief knowing that I could finally help Mom without Samira’s interference. But that was just the beginning.
The hospital bills kept coming, each one more shocking than the last. I couldn’t believe how high the costs were. And I wondered how Mom had been able to afford all of this, especially with Samira spending so much.
I soon realized that Mom’s savings were running low. But even as her health declined, I was able to visit her whenever I wanted, thanks to the hospital’s policies. Samira couldn’t stop me anymore.
I spent every evening by Mom’s side, reading to her, holding her hand, and making sure she was as comfortable as possible.
Samira watched me with resentment, always trying to win Mom’s attention. She practically lived at the hospital, never leaving Mom’s side. But I knew her reasons weren’t pure.
One night, Samira approached me while I was sitting next to Mom.
“Can we talk?” she asked, her tone serious.
I followed her into the hallway, crossing my arms.
“Look, Mom’s money is running out. I don’t know how much longer it’ll last,” Samira said, avoiding my gaze.
“I’m paying all the bills. How can the money be gone?” I asked, confused.
“There are other expenses too. Groceries, utilities… I need money to live too,” she said, her voice softening, as if trying to guilt-trip me.
“That’s the problem,” I said firmly. “You’re spending it all on yourself. I’m not supporting you.”
A few days later, I received the call that I had been dreading. My heart sank as I answered. Mom had passed away.
I rushed to the hospital, trembling. When I arrived, Samira and her lawyer were already there.
“Since I took care of Mom, all the inheritance goes to me,” Samira said coldly, before her lawyer handed me a will.
I shoved the will back into his hands. “Mom just died, and you’re thinking about money?!” I yelled at Samira.
“I don’t want any conflicts later,” she said flatly.
“You’re unbelievable,” I said, storming out.
I went straight to Dr. Miller’s office. When he saw me, his expression softened.
“I’m so sorry. Your mother loved you more than anyone,” he said gently.
“Thank you,” I whispered, barely holding back tears.
Before I left, Dr. Miller handed me an envelope. It was marked “For My True Daughter.”
“I’d like you to read this,” he said, handing me the envelope.
I stepped outside and sat in the hallway. My hands shook as I opened the envelope. Inside was a new will, more recent than the one Samira had. It was valid, and Mom had left everything to me.
There was also an account I never knew about, with more money than I could have imagined. Mom had thought of everything.
And then I saw the note attached to the will. It was in Mom’s handwriting:
“I told you I understand everything. I can see real care and distinguish it from selfish motives. That’s why I’m leaving everything to you, Nicole. I hope you keep that kindness and humanity in your heart. I love you, Mom.”
Tears welled up in my eyes as I read her words. Even after her death, Mom had protected me. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I didn’t know what lay ahead, but I was sure of one thing—I would honor her memory, living with the love, kindness, and strength she had always shown me.
