When Mom got sick, my sister suddenly stepped into the role of the devoted daughter. She moved in with her and shut me out, insisting she had everything under control. But I knew my sister—her intentions were never entirely genuine. I couldn’t do much to stop her at the time, but everything shifted the day the doctor handed me Mom’s final note.

I never quite understood how two siblings raised in the same home could turn out so differently—at least not until my sister and I became adults. Our mom raised us on her own, and as I grew older, I began to truly grasp how tough life had been for her.

I still remember the tiny apartment we lived in when I was young. Winters were bitterly cold, and the wind howled through the gaps in the windows. Mom juggled two jobs just to keep a roof over our heads, but it was always a struggle.

There were times when food was scarce. I’ll never forget the nights when our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, would bring us meals.

Back then, I didn’t fully understand the weight of her kindness. I only knew that I wasn’t going to bed hungry.

But I always noticed how Mom wouldn’t eat with us. She’d sit quietly, pretending she wasn’t hungry—but I knew she was. She just wanted to make sure we had enough.

Mom gave everything for us. Eventually, things started to improve. She got a better job, and little by little, we pulled ourselves out of poverty.

She even managed to save enough to move us into a better home. In time, both Samira and I went off to college.

But Samira didn’t remember those tough years like I did—she was too young to understand what Mom had gone through.

Maybe that’s part of why she turned out the way she did—let’s just say, a bit spoiled and carefree.

Even after graduating, she didn’t want to get a job. She kept asking Mom for money and spent it freely, like there’d always be more.

But everything shifted one day when Mom called and asked me to come over.

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

Her words kept replaying in my mind as I drove to her house after work. Something felt off—Mom never called me like that. When I got there, the front door was already open, so I stepped inside.

“Mom?” I called out.

“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, but they looked tired. Her eyes, usually bright, 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. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“My heart,” Mom said quietly. “They gave me a year, at best.”

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