When Mom fell ill, my sister suddenly became the perfect daughter. She moved in with Mom, kept me at a distance, and insisted she was taking care of everything. But I knew my sister too well. Her motives were never pure. I couldn’t stop her, but everything changed when the doctor gave me Mom’s final note.

I never understood how two children raised in the same home could be so different. Not until my sister and I became adults. Mom had raised us on her own, and as I grew older, I realized how difficult it must have been for her.

I remember the small apartment we lived in when I was a child. 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 a roof over our heads, but it never seemed enough.

There were nights when we barely had any food. I’ll never forget when our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, would bring us a steaming pot of soup or a plate of pasta, always with a warm smile.

I didn’t realize back then how much that meant. I only knew I wasn’t hungry anymore.

What struck me most, however, was that Mom never ate with us. She’d sit quietly, pretending she wasn’t hungry, but I knew the truth. She was giving everything she had to us.

Eventually, things started improving. Mom found a better job, and over time, we pulled ourselves out of poverty. She saved enough to move us into a nicer home, and Samira and I both went to college.

But Samira didn’t remember those tough times the way I did. She was too young to understand the sacrifices Mom 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, spending it like it would never run out.

But things took a turn for the worse. One day, I got a call from Mom.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

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

Her words echoed in my mind as I drove to her house. Something didn’t feel right. When I arrived, the front door was open, so I walked in.

“Mom?” I called.

“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, looking exhausted. Her eyes, usually so full of life, now 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. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s my heart,” she said quietly. “They gave me a year, at best.”

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

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

“No, this can’t be true,” I whispered, tears welling up.

“But it is,” she said. “All the stress and overwork took their toll.”

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

“I know,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “But don’t tell Samira. Not yet.”

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

“She’s living with her new boyfriend right now, so we’ll have some peace,” Mom replied.

I shook my head. “This isn’t right.”

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

A month later, Mom told Samira. Samira had come to ask for money again after breaking up with her boyfriend.

She came straight to me, walking in like she owned the place and sitting on my couch.

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

“Are you out of your mind? Mom’s sick. I need to be there for her,” I said, shocked by her words.

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

“Are you serious? I’m not interested in the money. I want to help her!” I replied, hurt by her accusations. “Or are you just projecting your own selfishness onto me?”

Samira rolled her eyes. “Mom always loved me more because she gave me money. Now you want something after she’s gone,” she said.

“That's ridiculous. I’ll keep visiting Mom. Someone has to look after her,” I said firmly.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m moving in with Mom to take 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. Now she needs me,” Samira insisted. “So don’t even try to visit. I won’t let you in.”

She stood up, grabbed her bag, and left without another word. I stared after her, disbelief settling in.

I couldn’t believe how selfish Samira was. I knew she was doing it for herself, only for herself.

And she wasn’t joking. Samira didn’t let me see Mom anymore, always coming up with excuses like “Mom’s sleeping,” “Mom doesn’t feel well,” or “Mom went to the doctor.”

So I started texting Mom, asking her to let me know when Samira wasn’t home so I could visit.

One afternoon, Mom texted me that Samira was at the mall, so I could come over. I stopped by the store for some supplies and went straight to her house.

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, walking over.

“Not too bad. I’m managing,” she 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,” she said, but her face turned serious. “Why haven’t you been visiting? Samira said you didn’t want to because I’d become a burden.”

My heart sank. “She said what?!” I was furious. “I haven’t come because Samira wouldn’t let me! She always made excuses, but as soon as I had the chance, I came.”

“I see,” Mom replied quietly.

“How is Samira helping? Does she take care of you?” I asked.

“Yes, yes. She’s been here almost all the time. She cooks, cleans, and brings me my medicine,” Mom said. “I think my illness has made her change for the better.”

“Yeah, right,” I muttered under my breath. “And do you have enough money for everything?” 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 treatment soon,” she said, her voice filled with concern.

“Don’t worry. I’ll talk to the doctor and handle it,” I said.

I stayed with her a little longer, talking about small things. When she said she was tired and wanted to rest, I helped her to her room.

“Nicole,” she whispered as she lay down. “I’ve lived a long life, and I understand everything.”

I nodded. Her words didn’t make sense to me, but I thought she was just tired.

I quietly left the house but didn’t go home. Instead, I drove straight to the hospital.

I walked into Dr. Miller’s office, and when he saw me, his serious expression softened.

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

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

Before she passed, Mom had given Dr. Miller something for me. He handed me an envelope with her handwriting: “For My True Daughter.”

I stepped outside to read it. My hands shook as I opened the envelope.

It was a recent will, and it was valid. Mom had left everything to me.

There was an account I hadn’t known about. The balance was more than I ever expected. She had thought of everything.

A small note was attached to the will. It read:

"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 burst into tears, overwhelmed with gratitude. Even after her passing, Mom had protected me.

I knew my next steps. I would honor her memory and live the way she had—loving, kind, and strong.