When Mom became ill, my sister suddenly became the "perfect daughter." She moved in with Mom, telling me she was handling everything, keeping me at a distance. But I knew my sister too well. Her intentions were never truly selfless. I couldn't stop her, but everything changed when the doctor handed me Mom's final note.

Growing up, I never understood how two siblings could be so different, especially in the same family. Not until my sister and I became adults. Our mother raised us on her own, and the older I got, the more I realized how difficult it had been for her.

I remember our tiny apartment when I was a child. Winters were always cold, and I could hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the windows. Mom worked two jobs just to make sure we had a roof over our heads, but it was never quite enough.

There were times when food was scarce. I’ll never forget when our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, would bring us dinner. She'd smile kindly, offering us a steaming pot of soup or a plate of pasta.

I didn’t fully understand it back then, but I knew one thing — I wasn’t hungry anymore.

What I did notice, though, was that Mom never ate with us. She would sit quietly, pretending not to be hungry, but I knew the truth.

She gave everything she had for us. As time passed, things got better. Mom found a better job, and slowly, we climbed out of poverty.

She saved enough to move us into a better house, and Samira and I eventually went to college.

But Samira didn’t remember those tough times the way I did. She was too young to understand the struggles Mom faced.

Maybe that’s why she turned out the way she did. How should I describe her? A little self-centered, maybe even carefree.

Even after college, Samira didn’t want to work. She constantly asked Mom for money, spending it as if it would never run out.

Then, everything changed. One day, Mom called me and asked me to come over.

"Is everything alright?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, I just need to talk to you," Mom replied.

Her words echoed in my mind as I drove to her house after work. I felt uneasy. Mom had never called me like this before. When I arrived, the door was open, so I walked in.

"Mom?" I called.

"I'm in the kitchen, honey," she called back.

I walked in to find her sitting at the table with a cup of tea. Her hands rested on the table, looking tired. Her eyes, usually full of life, seemed dim.

"What’s wrong? 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 skipped a beat. "What? What’s wrong?"

"My heart," Mom whispered. "They’ve given me a year, at best."

The words hit me like a ton of bricks. "Isn’t there anything that can be done? I’ll pay whatever it takes. Just tell me," I said, my voice trembling.

"A year is the most I can hope for with treatment. Without it, I might not even last two months," Mom said.

"No, no, this can’t be true," I whispered, tears filling my eyes.

"But it’s true," Mom said. "The stress and overwork have taken their toll."

I couldn’t hold back my emotions. I moved closer and hugged her. "We’ll get through this, Mom. I’ll be here with you."

"I know," she said softly, stroking my hair like she did when I was little. "Just don’t tell Samira yet."

"Why not? She’ll keep asking you for money when you need it for your treatment," I said.

"She’s living with her new boyfriend right now, so we can have some peace for a while," Mom replied.

I shook my head. "This isn’t right."

"I’ll tell her myself when the time is right," Mom said.

A month after that conversation, Samira came over, asking for money again after breaking up with her boyfriend.

After speaking with Mom, Samira came straight to me. She didn’t even knock. She walked right in, sat on my couch, and said, "I don’t want you visiting Mom."

"Are you serious? Mom is sick. I’m going to visit her. Someone needs to help her," I said. I couldn’t believe she was saying this.

"I know why you care so much — to get all her inheritance for yourself. But that won’t happen," Samira said.

"Are you kidding me? I don’t care about the money. I want to help Mom," I said. "Or are you the only one who judges everyone else?"

Samira rolled her eyes. "Mom always loved me more because she gave me more money. Now you want to get something when she’s gone," she said.

"That’s ridiculous. I’ll keep visiting Mom. Someone needs to help her," I said firmly.

"Don’t worry about it. I’ve already made plans. 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. I’ve always cared about Mom, and now she needs me. So, don’t even try coming over. I won’t let you in," Samira said.

She grabbed her bag and left without another word. I stood there, stunned.

I couldn’t believe how selfish Samira was. I knew this was all about her — only her.

But she wasn’t joking. Samira kept me away from Mom, always making excuses like, "Mom’s resting," "Mom isn’t feeling well," or "Mom went to the doctor."

So, I texted Mom and asked her to let me know when Samira wouldn’t be home, so I could visit.

One afternoon, Mom texted me saying Samira had gone to the mall, and I could come over. I stopped by the store to grab some supplies and went straight to her house.

When I arrived, Mom was lying on the couch, watching TV. She looked tired, but her face lit up when she saw me.

"How are you feeling?" I asked as I stepped closer.

"Not too bad. I’m managing," Mom said, smiling weakly.

"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," Mom said, but her expression became serious. "Why haven’t you been visiting me? Samira said you didn’t want to because I’ve become a burden."

My heart sank. "She said what?!" I was furious. "I didn’t come because Samira wouldn’t let me. She always had an excuse. As soon as I could, I came," I said.

"I see," Mom replied.

"How’s it going with Samira? Is she helping?" I asked.

"Yes, yes. She’s here almost all the time. She cooks, cleans, and brings me medicine," Mom said. "I think my illness has changed her for the better," she added.

"Yeah, right," I muttered under my breath. "Do you have enough money?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation.

"For now, yes, although Samira spends a lot. I’m worried we won’t have enough for the medicine soon," Mom said, her voice filled with concern.

"Don’t worry about that. I’ll talk to the doctor and take care of everything," I said confidently.

"Alright, thank you," Mom said with a tired smile.

I stayed a little longer. We talked about small things. I didn’t want to leave, but Mom said she was tired and wanted to sleep. I helped her to her room.

"Nicole," Mom said softly as she lay down. "I’ve lived a long life, and I understand everything."

I nodded, though her words didn’t quite make sense. I assumed she was just tired.

I put away the groceries and quietly left. But I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. I drove straight to the hospital.

I knocked on Dr. Miller’s office door. "Come in!" he called.

"Hello, I’m the daughter of one of your patients, Martha…"

"Oh, you must be Nicole," Dr. Miller said, cutting me off with a smile. "Sit down. Martha talked a lot about you."

I sat down across from him. "I want to talk about Mom’s treatment. From now on, send all the bills to me," I said.

"I thought Samira was paying for everything," Dr. Miller said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, with Mom’s money, but she spends a lot too. I don’t want Mom to worry about finances," I said.

"Alright, we can arrange that," Dr. Miller nodded.

I felt some relief, knowing I could finally help Mom without interference. But I knew this was just the beginning.

When the hospital bills started arriving, I was shocked at how high they were. Each bill was more than I expected.

I couldn’t believe Mom had enough money to cover all of it, especially considering how much Samira was spending.

I started to wonder where the money was coming from, knowing that Mom’s savings were running low.

As Mom’s condition worsened, I spent every evening by her side, reading to her, holding her hand, and making sure she was comfortable.

Samira watched me with resentment, practically living at the hospital to win Mom’s attention. But I knew her motives weren’t pure.

One evening, Samira approached me while I was with Mom. Her face was serious.

"Can we talk?" she asked.

I followed her into the hallway, crossing my arms.

"Look, Mom’s money is running out. I don’t know how much longer it’ll last," Samira said, avoiding my eyes.

"I’m paying all the medical bills. How is the money running out?" I asked.

"There are other expenses too. Groceries, utilities… I need money to live," Samira said, her voice softer, almost guilt-inducing.

"That’s the problem," I said firmly. "You spend it all on yourself. I’m not going to support you." I turned and walked back into Mom’s room.

A few days later, I received a call from the hospital. My heart sank. Mom was gone.

I rushed to the hospital, trembling. When I arrived, Samira and her lawyer were already there.

"Since I took care of Mom, all the inheritance goes to me," Samira said without even greeting me. Her lawyer handed me a will.

I shoved the will back into his hands. "Mom just died, and you’re already thinking about money?!" I yelled.

"I don’t want any conflict later," Samira said flatly.

"You’re unbelievable," I said, walking away.

I went straight to Dr. Miller’s office. 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, your mom gave me something to give you," Dr. Miller said. He handed me an envelope with Mom’s handwriting: "For My True Daughter."

"Do you mind if I step outside to read this?" I asked.

I stepped outside and sat in the hallway, my hands shaking as I opened the envelope. Inside was a will — a more recent one than Samira's, and it was valid. Mom had left everything to me.

There was also an account I didn’t know about, with a balance far more than I ever imagined. Mom had planned for everything.

A small note was attached, written in her familiar handwriting.

"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."

Tears filled my eyes as I read her words. She had protected me, even after her passing.

I felt overwhelming gratitude. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew I would honor Mom’s memory. I would live as she did — with love, kindness, and strength.