When Mom was diagnosed with a serious illness, my sister Samira suddenly stepped into the role of the “perfect daughter.” She moved into Mom’s home and told me I wasn’t needed anymore. At first, I tried to stay calm, but I knew my sister too well. She had never been the responsible one, and her sudden dedication didn’t feel sincere. I wanted to believe she had changed, but when the doctor later gave me an envelope containing Mom’s final words, I discovered the truth that Samira never expected.
Growing up, Mom raised us alone. Life wasn’t easy, and I remember the small apartment where winters felt endless and food was often scarce. Mom worked herself to exhaustion, sometimes skipping meals so we could eat. Over time, her sacrifices paid off, and things slowly improved. But while I carried those memories of hardship, Samira was too young to truly understand them. She grew into someone who leaned on others for support, never realizing the weight of the struggles Mom carried.
When Mom became sick, Samira used her illness as a way to control everything. She told me not to visit, insisting that she was taking care of Mom. Each time I tried to see her, I was turned away with excuses. Mom, however, was kinder in her view, believing Samira’s help was genuine. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my sister’s motives were more about money than love. And when Mom’s condition worsened, I stepped in quietly to handle the hospital bills myself, determined that she wouldn’t go without proper care.
After Mom passed, Samira immediately pushed a will into my hands, claiming everything belonged to her because she had “sacrificed the most.” I was devastated by Mom’s death but stunned by my sister’s greed. That’s when Dr. Miller, Mom’s doctor, handed me an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a letter in Mom’s handwriting, along with an updated will. In it, Mom explained that she had always known the difference between true care and selfish motives. She left everything to me, not because of money, but because she trusted me to honor her memory with kindness. Her words were her final gift — and a reminder that love, not selfishness, is what lasts.