When cancer forced me to move back into my mother’s house, I thought she’d take care of me. I thought she’d sit with me through chemo, cook me soups, and remind me that I wasn’t alone.
Instead, she gave me a daily list of chores, stole my food benefits, and even sold my car without asking. I was too weak to fight back—until my best friend saw what was happening and refused to let it continue.
I’m 24 years old, and I’ve been battling stomach cancer for eight months. The day I found out still feels unreal. It was a random Tuesday afternoon when the doctor called me into his office. His face looked almost as shocked as mine when he said, “I’m sorry, but the test results show stomach cancer.”
One moment, I was a healthy young woman with a decent job and my own apartment. The next, I was staring at papers that tore my whole life apart.
For years, I had lived far away from my mother. We were never close. Even as a teenager, I worked part-time jobs after school just so I could save money to leave. She always made me feel like a burden—like I was something she had to tolerate, not love.
I’ll never forget my 18th birthday. Moving into that tiny studio apartment with its leaky faucet felt like freedom. It wasn’t much, but at least it was mine.
But cancer doesn’t care about your independence.
The medical bills started stacking up right away. My insurance covered some chemo, but not enough. There were co-pays, medications, special foods my stomach could handle, and rides to appointments three times a week.
I tried to keep working, but my body wouldn’t let me. Some mornings, I couldn’t even get out of bed. On the days I dragged myself to work, I’d spend lunch breaks throwing up in the bathroom.
Eventually, I had no choice but to quit. The rent became impossible without my paycheck. My savings were gone in weeks. I sold my furniture, my TV, even my bed frame. But it still wasn’t enough.
That’s when I packed my few remaining boxes and moved back into my mother’s house. I was terrified—but a small part of me thought maybe this would heal our broken relationship. Maybe cancer would bring us together.
I was so wrong.
From the first week, I wasn’t treated like her daughter. I was treated like her maid.
Every morning, there was a handwritten list taped to the fridge. Hour by hour, it told me what to do:
“9:00 a.m. – Sweep the kitchen and mop the floors.”
“10:30 – Scrub both bathrooms, don’t forget the grout.”
“12:00 – Make lunch for me and my book club friends.”
“1:30 – Fold all the laundry and put it away.”
“3:00 – Start repainting the backyard fence.”
“5:00 – Vacuum the living room and dust the shelves.”
The lists went on and on until evening. It didn’t matter that I had chemo that day. It didn’t matter that I was sick and weak. If something wasn’t finished, she accused me of being lazy.
When I protested, she snapped, “You’re home all day anyway. What else are you doing? Sitting around feeling sorry for yourself?”
Even when chemo left me so weak I could barely crawl to bed, she’d sneer, “Other people work through worse. You’re not special.”
Then came the SNAP benefits. Because I couldn’t work, I qualified for them. That card was supposed to buy the plain rice, broths, and crackers I needed. But my mother had other plans.
“You’re too weak to shop,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’ll manage the card for you.”
At first, I was relieved. But then I noticed the groceries. Chips. Soda. Candy. Frozen pizzas. Nothing I could eat. When I asked, she said, “I bought what was on sale. Don’t be ungrateful.”
And the harassment didn’t stop when I left for treatment. While poison dripped into my veins, my phone buzzed nonstop with texts:
“Stop at the store on your way home and pick up milk and cookies.”
“Don’t forget to vacuum. The living room’s a mess.”
“You need to wash my car today. It’s filthy.”
Once, I texted back, “Mom, I’m in chemo right now. I feel awful. I can barely walk.”
Her reply cut like a knife: “Do you remember Mrs. Patterson, who lived next door? She had cancer too, and she still worked full-time, cleaned, and took care of her family. You’re young. Stop making excuses.”
Reading that while hooked up to chemo felt like being stabbed.
But the worst came later.
One day, I dragged myself home from chemo, desperate to collapse into bed. But when I looked outside, my car was gone. At first, I thought I’d parked it on the street. But the street was empty.
I called her, panicking. “Mom, where’s my car? Did it get towed?”
“Oh, that,” she said casually. “I sold it last week.”
“You WHAT?”
“I sold your car. You don’t need it anyway. I can drive you. The money went toward rent and bills. Living here isn’t free.”
That car was my last piece of independence. My way to appointments. My escape if things got worse.
“Mom, that was MY car. You can’t just sell it!”
She snapped back, “It was parked in my driveway, and you’re living under my roof. Do you want to keep living here or not? Stop acting spoiled and be grateful I’m taking care of things.”
Her words crushed me. In her eyes, nothing belonged to me—not my car, not my benefits, not even my time.
That’s when my friend Mara gave me a ride home from chemo. She took one look at me and said, “What’s going on, Lena?”
I broke down and told her everything—the chores, the stolen food, the car. Mara’s face turned red with anger.
“Lena, this isn’t just unfair. This is abuse. She’s exploiting you while you’re fighting for your life. You can’t stay here.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I whispered.
“Yes, you do. With me. Right now. Pack your things.”
And she meant it.
That night, I sat in Mara’s apartment, sipping tea I could actually keep down, and cried months of pain out of my chest. For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt safe.
But Mara wasn’t done. “What she did wasn’t just cruel, Lena. It was ILLEGAL. She stole your benefits and sold your car. We’re reporting this.”
I was terrified. My mother had spent years convincing me no one would believe me. But Mara stood beside me as I filed reports with police and social services. She held my hand through every call.
The officer didn’t dismiss me. “This is clear financial exploitation of a vulnerable adult,” he said.
Things moved fast. My mother couldn’t prove she had the right to sell my car. The stolen SNAP benefits were undeniable. Within two weeks, social services demanded she repay what she took and banned her from ever touching my account again.
Then came the knock at Mara’s door.
I knew it was her. Mom stood in the hallway, arms crossed, eyes blazing.
“What did you do?” she hissed. “They’re saying I owe money, that I sold the car illegally. Do you realize what you’ve done to me? You need to come home right now and fix this.
After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me? You’re selfish. You’re ungrateful. I gave you a roof, food, and this is the thanks I get? You’ve ruined everything!”
Her finger jabbed at me like a weapon. But this time, I didn’t crumble.
I stood tall. “No. I’m not coming back. You don’t own me. You’re going to face the consequences.”
Her eyes widened. She screamed more insults, but Mara calmly shut the door in her face.
That night, I realized the truth: she hadn’t lost me because of cancer. She lost me because she chose control over compassion.
Since then, social services restored my benefits. The car case is still under investigation, but at least it’s being treated as theft.
Sometimes she still calls. Some voicemails are fake apologies. Others are venom. But I don’t answer anymore.
Cancer has already taken my strength, my hair, and months of my life. I refuse to let her take my dignity too.
Living with Mara, I’m healing—not just physically, but emotionally. I’m learning that family isn’t supposed to treat you like a servant. I deserved better all along.
My mother lost me the day she chose power over love. No fine or warning will ever change that.