When my mom got sick, my sister, Jenna, became her constant caregiver, shutting me out. I suspected her sudden devotion was a ploy, but I couldn’t act. After Mom passed, her doctor handed me a note that exposed Jenna’s selfishness and Mom’s deep love for me.
Mom raised Jenna and me alone in a tiny, cold apartment, working two jobs to survive. I’d watch her skip meals, giving us the last bites. Our neighbor, Mrs. Hall, brought us warm dishes, her generosity a lifeline. As I grew, I understood Mom’s sacrifices. She landed a stable job, moved us to a better home, and funded our college. But Jenna, younger, didn’t grasp those tough years, growing up entitled, always asking Mom for money without contributing, living carelessly.
One afternoon, Mom called me, her voice heavy. I found her at the dining table, looking frail, a glass of water untouched. “My heart’s failing,” she said quietly. “A year, maybe.” I felt crushed, offering to pay for treatments, but she said they’d only buy time. I hugged her, tears falling, promising to stay by her. “Don’t tell Jenna yet,” she said, noting Jenna was living off a boyfriend. I protested, but she wanted to break the news herself. A month later, Jenna found out when she came for cash after a split.
Jenna stormed into my house, demanding I avoid Mom. “You’re chasing her money,” she accused. I was shocked. “I want to help Mom,” I said. She smirked, saying Mom loved her more, giving her cash. “I’m moving in to care for her,” she said, threatening to block me. I knew her care was fake, but she kept me away, claiming Mom was “resting” or “at appointments.” I texted Mom, visiting when Jenna was out. I brought groceries and found Mom tired, asking why I’d stopped coming. I was furious—Jenna lied, saying I found her a burden.
Mom said Jenna helped with meals and pills, believing she’d matured. I doubted it, seeing Jenna drain Mom’s funds. I vowed to cover medical costs and spoke to Dr. Patel to arrange it. Bills were staggering, beyond Mom’s savings, and I questioned Jenna’s spending. As Mom weakened, hospitalized, I sat with her nightly, comforting her. Jenna hovered, bitter, vying for Mom’s attention. She approached me, saying Mom’s money was low. “I’m paying bills,” I said. “You’re wasting her cash.” She looked guilty, and I left.
Mom’s passing broke me. At the hospital, Jenna, with a lawyer, claimed the inheritance for “caring.” I yelled, “Mom’s gone, and you’re greedy?” I went to Dr. Patel, who gave me an envelope labeled “For My True Heart.” It held a new will, leaving all to me, plus a secret account. Mom’s note read: “Your love was real, Sarah. Stay kind. Love, Mom.” I wept, thankful for her clarity. I’ll honor her with love and strength, not Jenna’s greed. What do you think of this story? Share it with friends—it might inspire them.
