When Mom got sick, something strange happened. My sister, Samira, became the perfect daughter. She moved in with Mom, acting like she was the only one who could take care of her. She told me to stay away, saying she had everything under control. But I knew my sister too well. She wasn’t doing it out of love. She always had her own agenda, and I couldn’t stop her. But everything changed when the doctor gave me Mom’s final note.
Looking back, I could never figure out how two such different people like me and Samira grew up in the same house. We had the same mom, but we turned out so differently. When I was little, I didn’t understand it. But as we grew up, I started to see the truth. Mom raised us alone, and the older I got, the more I realized how hard she worked.
I remember the small apartment we lived in when I was younger. It was always cold, especially in the winter. The wind would whistle through the cracks in the windows. Mom worked two jobs just to keep us afloat, but it was never enough.
There were times when we barely had any food in the house. I still remember those nights when Mrs. Jenkins, our neighbor, would bring us a hot meal. She’d always smile kindly as she handed us a steaming pot of soup or a plate of pasta.
I didn’t understand back then how much that meant. All I knew was that I wasn’t hungry anymore.
But I noticed something. Mom never ate with us. She’d sit at the table, pretending she wasn’t hungry, but I could see the truth. She gave everything she had to us.
Over time, things started to get better. Mom found a better job, and slowly we climbed out of poverty. We moved into a nicer house, and eventually, Samira and I went to college.
But Samira didn’t remember those tough times the way I did. She was younger, too young to understand the struggles Mom had gone through. Maybe that’s why she turned out so different from me. She was selfish, carefree, and didn’t think about anyone but herself.
Even after college, Samira didn’t want to work. She kept asking Mom for money and spent it like it would never run out.
Things got worse when Mom called me one day.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, feeling uneasy.
“Yes, yes, I just need to talk to you,” Mom said, her voice calm but something in it felt off.
I immediately dropped what I was doing and drove to her house after work. When I arrived, the front door was wide open. I walked inside, calling out, “Mom?”
“I’m in the kitchen, honey,” she called back.
I walked in and found her sitting at the kitchen table, holding a cup of tea. Her hands rested on the table, but they looked tired. Her eyes, which used to sparkle with life, seemed dull and distant.
“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, her voice barely above a whisper.
My heart raced. “What’s wrong, Mom?”
“My heart,” she said quietly. “They gave me a year at best.”
The words hit me like a punch in the stomach. “Isn’t there anything we can do? I’ll pay whatever it takes! Just tell me!” I begged, my voice shaking.
“A year is all I have, with treatment. Without it, I might not make it two months,” Mom said.
“No, this can’t be happening,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes.
“But it is,” Mom said softly. “I guess all the stress and overwork caught up with me.”
I couldn’t hold back anymore. I moved closer and hugged her tightly. “We’ll get through this together. I’m here for you, always.”
“I know,” she said, stroking my hair as she always did when I was younger. “But, Nicole… don’t tell Samira yet. Not until I’m ready.”
“Why not? She’ll keep asking for money when we need it for treatment,” I said.
“She’s with her new boyfriend. We’ve got time,” Mom replied.
I shook my head. “This isn’t right.”
“I’ll tell her myself when the time comes,” Mom said quietly.
A month passed before Mom finally told Samira about her illness. It was after Samira had come over, asking for money once again, right after breaking up with her boyfriend.
After the talk with Mom, Samira came straight to me. She didn’t even knock—just barged in, sitting down on my couch like she owned the place.
“I don’t want you visiting Mom,” Samira said flatly.
“Are you crazy? Mom is sick. I’m visiting her. Someone needs to help her!” I said, stunned by her selfishness.
“I know why you care so much about her—you want to get all of her inheritance for yourself. But that’s not going to happen,” Samira sneered.
“Are you serious? I don’t care about the money! I want to help Mom,” I shot back. “Are you judging everyone by yourself?”
Samira rolled her eyes. “Mom always loved me more because she gave me more money. Now you want to make sure you get everything when she’s gone,” she said.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I’m visiting Mom. Someone has to take care of her,” I said firmly.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m moving in with her. I’ll take care of everything,” Samira said, standing up and grabbing her bag.
“You? Since when are you so caring? You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself,” I retorted.
“That’s not true. I’ve always cared about Mom. Now she needs me, and I’m the one who’s here for her. So don’t bother showing up. I won’t let you in,” Samira said, storming out without another word.
I couldn’t believe it. Samira wasn’t doing any of this for Mom. It was all for herself.
But as it turned out, she wasn’t joking. Samira wouldn’t let me see Mom. Every time I tried to visit, she came up with an excuse: “Mom’s sleeping,” “She’s not feeling well,” or “She’s at the doctor.”
So I started texting Mom, asking when Samira would be out so I could visit.
One afternoon, Mom texted me. Samira had gone to the mall, and I could come over. I stopped by the store to grab some things for her and rushed to her house.
When I walked in, Mom was lying on the couch, watching TV. She looked tired, but when she saw me, her eyes brightened.
“How are you feeling, Mom?” I asked, walking over to her.
“Not too bad, honey. I’m managing,” she said weakly.
“I brought you some groceries,” I said, setting the bag down. “Your favorite tea and some fresh fruit.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, but her expression grew serious. “Why haven’t you been visiting me? Samira told me you didn’t want to because I’d become a burden.”
My heart dropped. “She said what?!” I was furious. “I didn’t come because Samira wouldn’t let me! She kept making excuses, but I came as soon as I could!” I explained.
“I see,” Mom replied.
“How’s Samira been treating you? Is she helping?” I asked, trying to keep my cool.
“Yes, yes. She’s here most of the time. She cooks, cleans, and brings me my medicine,” Mom said. “I think her being here has changed her for the better,” she added.
“Yeah, right,” I muttered under my breath. “Do you have enough money?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“For now, yes. But Samira spends a lot. I’m afraid we won’t have enough for the medicine soon,” Mom said, worry in her voice.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of the bills. I’ll talk to the doctor,” I said, determined.
“Thank you, Nicole,” Mom said, offering a tired smile.
I stayed a while longer, talking about little things. I didn’t want to leave, but Mom said she was tired and needed to rest. I helped her to her room and tucked her in.
“Nicole,” Mom said softly, once she was settled. “I’ve lived a long life, and I understand everything now.”
I nodded, but her words didn’t make sense to me. I thought she was just tired.
I quietly left the house, but instead of going home, I drove straight to the hospital.
I knocked on Dr. Miller’s office door and heard him call, “Come in!”
“Hello, I’m Nicole, the daughter of Martha…” I started.
“Oh, you must be Nicole,” Dr. Miller interrupted. “Have a seat. Martha talked a lot about you.”
I sat down across from him. “I want to talk about Mom’s treatment. From now on, send all the bills to me,” I said firmly.
“I thought Samira was paying for everything,” Dr. Miller said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, with Mom’s money, but she spends a lot too. I don’t want Mom to worry about finances,” I said.
“Alright, we’ll make that arrangement,” Dr. Miller said, nodding.
I felt a bit of relief, knowing I could help Mom without Samira’s interference. But I knew this was just the beginning.
When the hospital bills started arriving, I was shocked. The amounts were higher than I expected. How could Mom afford this? I knew she had little savings left.
As Mom’s condition worsened, she spent more time in bed. Eventually, she had to be hospitalized, and I was able to visit her whenever I wanted. Samira couldn’t stop me.
I spent every evening by Mom’s side. I read to her, held her hand, and made sure she was comfortable. Samira would watch us from the doorway, but I knew she wasn’t there for Mom’s sake. She was there for her own.
One evening, Samira pulled me aside, looking serious.
“Can we talk?” she asked, her tone different than usual.
I followed her into the hallway. “What’s going on?”
“Mom’s money is running out. I don’t know how much longer it’ll last,” she said, avoiding my gaze.
“I’m paying all the bills. How can the money be running out?” I asked, confused.
“Well, there are other expenses too. Groceries, utilities… I need money for myself as well,” Samira said, her voice softening, almost like she was trying to guilt-trip me.
“That’s the problem,” I said coldly. “You spend it all on yourself. I’m not supporting you.”
I turned and walked back into Mom’s room.
A few days later, I got a call from the hospital. My heart sank. I knew what it meant before I even answered.
Mom was gone.
I rushed to the hospital, my hands shaking. When I arrived, Samira and her lawyer were already there.
“Since I took care of Mom, all her inheritance goes to me,” Samira said, coldly, without even a word of sympathy.
The lawyer handed me a will. I threw it back at him. “Mom just died, and you’re talking about money?” I yelled at Samira.
“I just want to avoid any conflicts,” 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,” he said gently. “Your mom loved you more than anyone.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, barely holding it together.
“Before she passed, your mom left this for you,” Dr. Miller said, handing me an envelope.
It was addressed to me: “For My True Daughter.”
I stepped outside his office, sitting down in the hallway. My hands were shaking as I opened the envelope. Inside was a new will. A will that was more recent than the one Samira had.
It was valid. Mom had left everything to me.
There was also a bank account I didn’t know about. The balance was more than I could ever have imagined. Mom had thought of everything.
At the end of the will, I found a small note written in her handwriting.
“I told you I understand everything. I see real love and care. That’s why I’m leaving everything to you, Nicole. I hope you keep that kindness in your heart. I love you, Mom.”
I sat there, tears streaming down my face. Even in death, Mom had protected me. She had known.
I didn’t know what the future would bring, but I knew one thing for sure. I would live my life as she had: with love, kindness, and strength.
