When Mom got sick, my sister Samira suddenly stepped up—moved in with her and pushed me away, claiming she was handling everything. But I knew her too well. Samira’s motives were never pure.
Growing up, we had nothing. Mom raised us alone, working two jobs to keep a roof over our heads. I remember freezing winters and kind neighbors who brought us food. Mom always gave us everything—even going hungry herself. Eventually, things improved. We moved to a better home, and both of us went to college. But Samira didn’t remember the hard times like I did. She became selfish, always asking Mom for money.
When Mom told me her heart was failing and she only had a year left, I was heartbroken. She made me promise not to tell Samira right away. A month later, Mom broke the news, and Samira’s reaction was shocking—she accused me of wanting Mom’s inheritance and banned me from visiting.
I tried anyway. Mom was happy to see me, but surprised—Samira had lied, saying I didn’t care. I learned Mom still funded everything, even while Samira spent freely. So I stepped in, taking over Mom’s medical expenses.
As Mom’s condition worsened, she was hospitalized, and I was finally free to visit. Samira clung to Mom’s side, still pretending to care, but I saw through it. She even complained that the money was running out.
Then came the call—Mom had passed. At the hospital, Samira was already talking about the inheritance. I was disgusted. But then Dr. Miller handed me a letter from Mom. Inside was a newer will, leaving everything to me.
Mom’s note read: “I can see real care and distinguish it from selfish motives. That’s why I’m leaving everything to you.”
Tears filled my eyes. Even in death, Mom had protected me. I promised to live as she had—kind, strong, and full of love.