When Mom got sick, my sister suddenly stepped into the role of the devoted daughter. She moved in with her and shut me out, insisting she had everything under control. But I knew my sister—her intentions were never entirely genuine. I couldn’t do much to stop her at the time, but everything shifted the day the doctor handed me Mom’s final note.

I never quite understood how two siblings raised in the same home could turn out so differently—at least not until my sister and I became adults. Our mom raised us on her own, and as I grew older, I began to truly grasp how tough life had been for her.

I still remember the tiny apartment we lived in when I was young. Winters were bitterly cold, and the wind howled through the gaps in the windows. Mom juggled two jobs just to keep a roof over our heads, but it was always a struggle.

There were times when food was scarce. I’ll never forget the nights when our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, would bring us meals.

She’d offer a gentle smile as she handed over a steaming pot of soup or a plate of pasta.

Back then, I didn’t fully understand the weight of her kindness. I only knew that I wasn’t going to bed hungry.

But I always noticed how Mom wouldn’t eat with us. She’d sit quietly, pretending she wasn’t hungry—but I knew she was. She just wanted to make sure we had enough.

Mom gave everything for us. Eventually, things started to improve. She got a better job, and little by little, we pulled ourselves out of poverty.

She even managed to save enough to move us into a better home. In time, both Samira and I went off to college.

But Samira didn’t remember those tough years like I did—she was too young to understand what Mom had gone through.

Maybe that’s part of why she turned out the way she did—let’s just say, a bit spoiled and carefree.

Even after graduating, she didn’t want to get a job. She kept asking Mom for money and spent it freely, like there’d always be more.

But everything shifted one day when Mom called and asked me to come over.

“Yes, yes, I just need to talk to you,” Mom replied.

Her words kept replaying in my mind as I drove to her house after work. Something felt off—Mom never called me like that. When I got there, the front door was already open, so I stepped inside.

“Mom?” I called out.

“I’m in the kitchen, honey,” she called back.

I walked in and saw her sitting at the table with a cup of tea. Her hands rested on the table, but they looked tired. Her eyes, usually bright, seemed 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 softly.

My heart pounded. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“My heart,” Mom said quietly. “They gave me a year, at best.”

The words hit me like a brick. “Isn’t there anything that can be done? I’ll pay whatever it takes, just tell me,” I said, my voice shaking.

“A year is the most I’ll get with treatment. Without it, I might not even make it two months,” Mom said.

“No, no, this can’t be true,” I whispered. Tears filled my eyes.

“But it’s true,” Mom said. “It looks like all the stress and overwork didn’t do me any good.”

I couldn’t hold back, therefore I moved closer and hugged her. “We’ll get through this, Mom. I’ll be here with you.”

“I know,” Mom said softly, “Just don’t tell Samira anything for now.”

“Why not? She’ll keep asking you for money when you need it for treatment,” I said.

“She’s living off her new boyfriend right now, so we can be calm for a while,” Mom replied.

I shook my head. “This is wrong.”

“I’ll tell her myself when the time is right,” Mom said.

A month after our conversation, Mom finally told Samira everything. Samira had shown up at her place asking for money again after another breakup with her boyfriend.

Right after their talk, she came straight to my house. Didn’t even bother knocking—just walked in like she owned the place and dropped onto my couch.

“I don’t want you visiting Mom,” Samira said.

“Are you out of your mind? Mom is sick. I’ll visit her. Someone needs to help her,” I said. I couldn’t believe she was saying this.

“I know why you’re so concerned about her — to get all her inheritance for yourself. But that won’t happen,” Samira said.

“Are you serious? I don’t care about the money. I want to help Mom,” I said. “Or are you judging everyone by yourself?”

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,” she said.

“That’s so stupid if that’s really what you think. I’ll keep visiting Mom. Someone needs to help 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 are you so caring? You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself,” I said.

“That’s not true. I’ve always cared about Mom, and now she needs me. So don’t even try coming over. I won’t let you in,” Samira said.

She got up, picked up her bag, and walked out without saying anything else. I just sat there, staring at the door long after she’d left.

I couldn’t believe how selfish Samira was being. It was clear she was acting purely out of self-interest—only for herself.

And, as it turned out, she wasn’t joking at all.

Samira didn’t let me see Mom, always coming up with excuses like, “Mom is 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 wouldn’t be home so I could visit.

One afternoon, Mom sent me a text saying that Samira had gone to the mall and that I could come over. I made a quick stop at the grocery store for some essentials before heading straight to Mom’s house.

When I got there, Mom was resting on the couch, watching TV. She looked worn out, but her eyes brightened as soon as she saw me.

“How are you feeling?” I asked as I stepped closer.

“Not too bad. I’m managing,” Mom said with a weak smile.

“I brought you some groceries,” I said, placing the bag on the floor. “I got your favorite tea and some fresh fruit.”

“Thank you, honey,” Mom said, but her face grew serious. “Why haven’t you been visiting me? Samira said you didn’t want to because I’d become a burden.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “She said what?!” I was outraged. “I didn’t come because Samira wouldn’t let me. She always had an excuse. As soon as I had the chance, I came,” I said.

“I see,” Mom replied.

“How is it with Samira? Does she help?” I asked.

“Yes, yes. She’s by my side almost all the time. She cooks, cleans, and brings me medicine,” Mom said. “I think my illness has changed her for the better,” she added.

“Yeah, right,” I muttered under my breath. “And do you have enough money?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“For now, yes, although Samira spends a lot. I’m afraid we won’t have enough for the medicine soon,” Mom said, her voice filled with concern.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll talk to the doctor and take care of everything,” I said firmly.

“Alright, thank you,” Mom said with a tired smile.

I stayed with her a little while longer, chatting about simple things. I didn’t want to leave, but Mom said she was tired and ready for bed. I carefully helped her to her room, supporting her as we went.

“Nicole,” Mom softly said when she lay down. “I’ve lived a long life, and I understand everything.”

I simply nodded, even though her words didn’t quite add up to me—I figured she was just exhausted.

After putting away the groceries, I slipped out quietly. But I didn’t head home—I couldn’t. Instead, I drove straight to the hospital.

I knocked on Dr. Miller’s office door, and after hearing, “Come in!” I entered.

“Hello, I’m the daughter of one of your patients, Martha…”

“Oh, you must be Nicole,” said Dr. Miller, not even letting me finish Mom’s full name. “Have a seat. Martha talked a lot about you.”

I sat down across from Dr. Miller. “I want to talk about Mom’s treatment. From now on, send all the bills to me, for anything,” I said.

“I thought Samira was paying for everything,” Dr. Miller said, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes, with Mom’s money, but she spends a lot too. I don’t want Mom worrying about finances,” I said.

“Alright, we can arrange that,” Dr. Miller said with a nod.

I felt a sense of relief, knowing I could finally support Mom without Samira getting in the way. But deep down, I knew this was only the start.

When the hospital bills started coming in, I was stunned by how high they were—each one more expensive than I’d imagined.

I couldn’t understand how Mom had managed to cover it all, especially with how much money Samira had been going through.

I started to question where the money was coming from, knowing that Mom’s savings were nearly gone.

As the months went by, her health declined. She grew weaker and spent most of her time in bed.

Eventually, she had to be admitted to the hospital—and for the first time, I could visit her freely. Samira couldn’t keep me from seeing her there.

I spent each evening at Mom’s bedside—reading to her, holding her hand, and making sure she was at ease.

Samira watched me with barely concealed resentment. Desperate for Mom’s attention, she all but moved into the hospital, rarely leaving her side. But I knew her motives weren’t sincere.

One evening, as I sat quietly with Mom, Samira approached me with a serious look on her face.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

I followed her into the hallway. I crossed my arms and waited.

“Look, Mom’s money is running out. I don’t know how much longer it’ll last,” Samira said. She avoided my eyes.

“I’m paying all the medical bills. How can the money be gone?” I asked.

“Well, there are other expenses too. Groceries, utilities… I need money to live too,” Samira said. Her voice was softer now, almost like she was 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.

Some days after that conversation, I got a call from the hospital. My heart sank as I answered. 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 took care of Mom, all the inheritance goes to me,” Samira said instead of greeting me. Then, 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, her tone flat.

“You’re unbelievable,” I said and walked away.

I went straight to Dr. Miller’s office. As soon as he saw me, his serious expression softened.

“I’m so sorry. Your mother loved you more than anyone,” he said gently.

“Thank you,” I replied, barely holding back tears.

“Before she passed, your mom gave me something to give you,” Dr. Miller said. He took an envelope out of his drawer and handed it to me. Mom’s handwriting on the envelope read: “For My True Daughter.”

“Do you mind if I step outside to read this?” I asked.

I walked out of his office and sank into one of the chairs in the hallway, my hands trembling as I held the envelope.

Taking a deep breath, I opened it. Inside was a will. I read every word carefully, my heart racing.

It was more recent than the version Samira had—and legally valid. Mom had left everything to me.

There was also an account I didn’t know about. The balance was more than I had ever imagined. She had thought of everything.

A small note was attached to the will. I recognized Mom’s handwriting instantly.

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 filled my eyes as I read her words. I covered my face and cried. Even after her death, Mom had protected me.

I felt a wave of gratitude. I didn’t know what lay ahead, but I was certain I would honor Mom’s memory. I would live how she had lived — with love, kindness, and strength.