I’m Megan, wed to my high school sweetheart, Ryan, with two kids, Ella, 15, and Owen, 12. Our days were warm—school pickups, park picnics, and quiet evenings. Last spring, Mom’s call rocked me. “I have cancer,” she said, voice trembling. I began helping with doctor trips and meals. Ryan handled more with the kids, letting me care for Mom. “You’re a gift,” Mom would say, smiling weakly. As her illness grew, I was there every day, aiding with dressing and walking. My older sister, Carla, lived close but stayed away, blaming her job.
I called Carla with updates, but she brushed me off. “Work’s crazy,” she’d say. “You’re better at this, Megan.” Mom’s face fell when I made excuses for Carla’s absence. This was typical—Carla always claimed glory, like taking credit for our childhood baking. Mom would shrug, “That’s Carla.” As Mom weakened, she asked about Carla. I said Carla sent love, protecting Mom’s feelings. One cold January dawn, Mom passed, her hand in mine, rain outside.
I thought Carla would help with the funeral, but she refused. “I can’t afford it,” she said. “You’re great at it.” I hung up, exhausted. Ryan saw me with funeral brochures. “She’s not helping?” he asked. I nodded. I paid for it all—Mom’s oak casket, her church service, roses, and a guest lunch. I used our savings, meant for Ella’s college. Alone, I crafted a slideshow of Mom’s life—her young, with Carla, my wedding. Carla called, wanting to speak at the funeral. “Okay,” I said, expecting her to seek attention.
At the memorial, I welcomed guests with Ryan and the kids. Carla swept in, dressed elegantly, playing the devoted daughter, accepting hugs. I stayed silent, recalling Mom’s pain. At the reception, Carla clinked her glass. “I gave Mom the perfect send-off,” she said. “I paid for everything.” I was floored. She lied boldly. I held back, honoring Mom’s day. Then, Mr. Lewis, the funeral director, approached Carla with my receipt.
“This is for Megan,” he said loudly. “She paid it all alone. It’s remarkable.” Silence fell. Carla blushed, stammering, “I meant emotionally.” Guests ignored her, turning to me. Mom’s friend, Mrs. Nguyen, whispered, “Your mom’s proud.” Carla approached later, but I cut her off. “Don’t.” She left quietly. Driving home in the rain, I felt calm. Mom taught me integrity wins. Carla’s lie crumbled, and I stood firm, living Mom’s values.
