When Mom fell ill, my sister suddenly became the “perfect” daughter. She moved in with Mom, telling me that she was handling everything and keeping me away. But I knew my sister too well. Her intentions were never as pure as they seemed. I couldn’t stop her, but everything changed when the doctor handed me Mom’s final note.
Growing up, I never understood how such different children could emerge from the same family. Not until my sister and I became adults. Our mother raised us on her own, and as I grew older, I began to realize just how hard it had been for her.
I remember the small apartment we lived in when I was young. It was always cold in the winter, and I could hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the windows. Mom worked two jobs just to keep us sheltered, but it was never enough.
There were nights when food was scarce. I’ll never forget when our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, brought us dinner. She would smile kindly as she handed us a steaming pot of soup or a plate of pasta.
I didn’t understand back then what it truly meant. I only knew I wasn’t hungry anymore.
What I did notice, though, was how Mom never ate with us. She’d sit quietly, pretending she wasn’t hungry, but I knew better.
She gave everything she had for us. Over time, things improved. Mom found a better job, and slowly, we began to climb out of poverty.
She saved enough to move us to a better house, and eventually, Samira and I went to college.
But Samira didn’t remember those difficult times as I did. She was too young to grasp the sacrifices Mom had made.
Maybe that’s why she turned out the way she did—selfish and carefree.
Even after finishing college, Samira didn’t want to work. She kept asking Mom for money and spent it like it would never run out.
Then, one day, things took a turn for the worse. Mom called me and asked me to come over.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, I just need to talk to you,” Mom replied.
Her words echoed in my mind as I drove to her house after work. Something felt off. Mom never called me like that. When I arrived, the door was open, so I walked in.
“Mom?” I called out.
“I’m in the kitchen, honey,” she replied.
I walked in and found her sitting at the table with a cup of tea. Her hands were resting on the table, but they looked tired. Her eyes, usually so bright, were dull.
“What happened? What did you want to talk about?” I asked as I sat down.
Mom took a deep breath. “I went to the doctor today. Unfortunately, I have bad news,” she said quietly.
My heart raced. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“My heart,” she said softly. “They’ve given me a year, at best.”
The words hit me like a punch. “Isn’t there anything that can be done? I’ll pay whatever it takes, just tell me,” I said, my voice trembling.
“A year is the most I’ll have with treatment. Without it, I might not make it two months,” Mom replied.
“No, no, this can’t be true,” I whispered, my eyes brimming with tears.
“But it’s true,” Mom said. “The stress and overwork have taken their toll.”
I couldn’t hold back anymore, so I moved closer and hugged her. “We’ll get through this, Mom. I’ll be here with you.”
“I know,” Mom whispered, stroking my hair like she used to when I was small. “Just don’t tell Samira yet.”
“Why not? She’ll keep asking you for money when you need it for treatment,” I said.
“She’s living with her new boyfriend for now, so we can have a little peace,” Mom replied.
I shook my head. “This isn’t right.”
“I’ll tell her when the time comes,” she said.
Mom eventually told Samira a month after our conversation. Samira came over, asking for money again after breaking up with her boyfriend.
After talking to Mom, Samira came straight to me. She didn’t knock. She walked in like she owned the place and sat down on my couch.
“I don’t want you visiting Mom,” Samira said.
“Are you out of your mind? Mom is sick. Someone needs to help her,” I said. I couldn’t believe she was saying this.
“I know why you care so much — it’s to get all of her inheritance for yourself. But that won’t happen,” Samira said.
“Are you serious? I don’t care about the money. I just want to help Mom,” I said. “Or is that how you think about everyone else?”
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 when she’s gone.”
“That’s ridiculous if that’s really what you think. I’m still going to visit Mom. Someone needs to take care of her,” I said firmly.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve already planned everything. I’m moving in with Mom and taking care of her,” Samira said.
“You? Since when did you start caring? You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself,” I retorted.
“That’s not true. I’ve always cared about Mom, and now she needs me. Don’t even think about coming over. I won’t let you,” Samira said.
She grabbed her bag and left without saying another word. I stared at the door after she was gone, disbelief flooding me.
I couldn’t believe how selfish Samira was. I knew she was doing this for her own gain.
But as it turned out, she wasn’t joking. Samira blocked me from seeing Mom, always making excuses like, “Mom is sleeping,” “Mom doesn’t feel well,” or “Mom is at the doctor.”
So, I texted Mom and asked her to let me know when Samira would be out so I could visit.
One afternoon, Mom texted that Samira had gone to the mall and I could come over. I stopped at the store to pick up some supplies and headed straight to Mom’s.
When I arrived, Mom was lying on the couch, watching TV. She looked tired, but her eyes lit up when she saw me.
“How are you feeling?” I asked as I approached.
“Not too bad. I’m managing,” Mom replied with a weak smile.
“I brought you some groceries,” I said, setting the bag down. “Your favorite tea and some fresh fruit.”
“Thank you, honey,” she said, but her face became serious. “Why haven’t you been visiting? Samira said you didn’t want to because I’d become a burden.”
My heart stopped. “She said what?!” I exclaimed, angry. “I couldn’t come because Samira wouldn’t let me! She always had an excuse. As soon as I had a chance, I came.”
“I see,” Mom replied.
“How’s it going with Samira? Does she help?” I asked.
“Yes, she’s by my side most of the time. She cooks, cleans, and brings me my medicine,” Mom said. “I think my illness has made her more caring,” she added.
“Yeah, right,” I muttered under my breath. “Do you have enough money?” I asked, changing the subject.
“For now, yes, although Samira spends a lot. I’m worried we won’t have enough for the medicine soon,” Mom said, her voice tinged with worry.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll talk to the doctor,” I assured her.
“Alright, thank you,” Mom said, her smile tired.
I stayed with her for a while, chatting about small things. I didn’t want to leave, but Mom said she was tired and wanted to sleep. I helped her to her room and tucked her in.
“Nicole,” Mom whispered once she was settled. “I’ve lived a long life, and I understand everything.”
I just nodded. Her words didn’t quite make sense, but I assumed she was just tired.
After putting the groceries away, I left quietly. But I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. I drove straight to the hospital.
I knocked on Dr. Miller’s office door. When I heard him say, “Come in,” I entered.
“Hello, I’m the daughter of one of your patients, Martha…”
“Oh, you must be Nicole,” Dr. Miller interrupted, smiling kindly. “Have a seat. Your mother talked about you often.”
I sat down. “I want to talk about Mom’s treatment. From now on, send all the bills to me. Everything,” I said.
“I thought Samira was handling all the expenses,” Dr. Miller remarked.
“She is, but she’s also spending a lot. I don’t want Mom to worry about the finances,” I replied.
“Alright, we can arrange that,” he said with a nod.
I felt relieved knowing I could finally take care of things without interference. But I knew this was only the beginning.
When the hospital bills started arriving, I was shocked at the amount. They were higher than I’d expected.
I couldn’t believe Mom had enough money to cover it all, especially with how much Samira was spending.
Where was the money coming from? Mom’s savings were nearly gone.
As time went on, Mom’s health declined. Her strength faded, and she spent more time in bed.
Eventually, she had to be hospitalized, and I could visit her whenever I wanted. Samira couldn’t stop me now.
I spent every evening by her side. I read to her, held her hand, and made sure she was comfortable.
Samira watched me with growing resentment. Desperate for Mom’s attention, she practically moved into the hospital, never leaving her side. But I knew her motives were far from genuine.
One evening, Samira approached me while I was with Mom. Her expression was serious.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
I followed her into the hallway and crossed my arms, waiting.
“Mom’s money is running out. I don’t know how much longer it’ll last,” Samira said, her eyes avoiding mine.
“I’m paying the medical bills. How can the money be gone?” I asked.
“There are other expenses. Groceries, utilities… I need money to live too,” Samira said, her tone softening, as if trying to make me feel guilty.
“That’s the problem,” I said firmly. “You spend it all on yourself. I’m not going to support you.” I turned and went back into Mom’s room.
A few days after that conversation, I got a call from the hospital. My heart sank as I picked up. Mom was gone.
I was devastated. I rushed to the hospital, my hands trembling. When I arrived, Samira and her lawyer were already there.
“Since I’ve taken care of Mom, all of the inheritance belongs to me,” Samira said, instead of offering any sympathy. The lawyer handed me a will.
I shoved the will back at him. “Mom just passed away, and you’re already thinking about money?!” I yelled at Samira.
“I don’t want any conflict later,” she said flatly.
“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered and walked away.
I went straight to Dr. Miller’s office. When he saw me, his serious 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 she passed, your mom gave me something to give you,” Dr. Miller said, pulling an envelope from his drawer.
Mom’s handwriting was on the envelope: For My True Daughter.
“Do you mind if I step outside to read this?” I asked.
I stepped outside and sat down in the hallway. My hands shook as I opened the envelope.
Inside was a will. It was more recent than the one Samira had, and it was valid. Mom had left everything to me.
There was also an account I didn’t know about. The balance was far more than I ever imagined. Mom had planned everything.
Attached to the will was a small note, written in her familiar 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 always keep kindness and humanity in your heart. I love you, Mom.
Tears filled my eyes as I read her words. I cried, overwhelmed by her love and protection, even after her passing.
I felt a deep wave of gratitude. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew one thing for sure — I would live in honor of Mom’s memory, with love, kindness, and strength.
