Perhaps stupidly, I thought that when our mother initially became very ill, it would bring my sister Samira and I closer together. As we attempted to work through the anguish together, I pictured late-night phone conversations in which we would discuss our worries, alternate staying with Mom, and perhaps even chuckle over old family recollections. I believed that we would eventually reunite despite losing the lady who reared us. However, that hope fell apart more quickly than I could have predicted.
Mom had put in a lot of labor as a child, often working two or three jobs, to put food on the table and a roof over our heads. Even with tired eyes, she was the epitome of strength. I witnessed everything. I shared it with her.
Mom approached me in private as her heart condition deteriorated and requested me to hold off on telling Samira just yet. She said that she needed time to think things through, to come up with a way to say it, and perhaps to get ready for the drama she was afraid would accompany it. Even though it was painful to bear that weight by myself, I granted her wish. I believed I was acting appropriately. However, Samira appeared suddenly, noisy, demanding, and behaving as though she had always been there. Then all of a sudden, things were different.
She claimed she wanted to “help” when she moved into Mom’s house without ever talking to me. However, I soon realized the deception. It wasn’t about Mom. It was all about control—controlling the story and, more crucially, obtaining her share of the inheritance she believed was rightfully hers. She started talking over me, excluding me, and making choices without consulting me. “She’s sleeping,” “She’s too tired,” or “She doesn’t want visitors right now” were the excuses I heard each time I called or stopped by to see how Mom was doing.
My own mother’s existence was blocked off from me by the excuses that stacked up like boulders.
However, Mom gave me a weary, tearful expression and said, “Why haven’t you come to see me?” when I happened to catch her by herself one day. My heart broke. I repeatedly assured her that I had. She was taken aback. The illusion broke for us both at that very instant. Samira was lying. She had used deceit and trickery to keep us apart.
I made it my goal to be there from that day on. I took over Mom’s medical bill payments. I brought her favorite books and homemade soup, and I sat next to her hospital bed. When the anguish became unbearable, I held her hand.
Grief struck me like a tidal wave after Mom went away. But the envelope Samira gave me, cocky and self-assured, made things worse. She held up a will she said had been amended lately and added, “Mom left everything to me.”
I felt deceived and numb. But I had a gut feeling that I shouldn’t give up. A lawyer got in touch with me a few days later and requested a meeting. He gave me a second will there, which was Mom’s last and official testament. She had left me everything in it. Her house, her money, and even the small items she valued most, like her notebooks, her locket, and the ancient wedding ring she never wore but kept.
In her own handwriting, she had left me a letter. It simply said: “You always showed me love, even when it cost you. This is my way of expressing thank you. Look after yourself. And if you can, please forgive your sister someday. I will always adore you, Mom.
Samira was enraged. She screamed, said I had forged the will, and said she would challenge it. But I believe she knew in her heart. She was aware of her actions and the reason behind Mom’s decision.