My sister gave up her 30s to care for our dying mother.
I moved states, started a career, had two kids, bought a house.
We talked, but not often. I always told myself, “She understands.”
She never asked for help. Never complained.
I visited once or twice a year, sometimes less.
Mom would smile, frail and soft-spoken, always saying, “She’s been my rock.”
My sister would nod in the corner, silent.
When Mom died last week, I booked a flight the same day.
I brought flowers and old photos, hoping we’d cry and remember together.
Instead, she greeted me at the door with cold eyes and folded arms.
The funeral was quiet. She didn’t sit next to me.
Afterward, I brought up the will. “We should go over it.”
She looked at me like I’d slapped her.
“There’s nothing to split,” she said flatly.
I was confused—Mom owned the house, had savings, jewelry, a pension.
She handed me a folder. Inside, everything was already in her name.
Signed, notarized, dated three years ago.
“She wanted the one who was here to have it,” my sister said.
I sat down, stunned. “You didn’t even tell me she was changing it.”
“You didn’t ask about her in months,” she snapped.
“I loved her,” I said quietly. “I just couldn’t be there all the time.”
“You were never there,” she said, voice breaking.
She told me about the nights Mom coughed blood into her hands.
The adult diapers. The seizures. The hospice visits.
“She begged for you sometimes. But you were always too busy.”
I said, “That’s not fair. I had a family. A job.”
“She was family too,” she whispered.
I told her Mom wouldn’t have wanted this rift between us.
“She died asking if you’d call. You didn’t.”
I looked at the childhood pictures. We were so close once.
She said she stopped waiting for me to show up.
That the inheritance was just proof of what she’d already done.
“She died in my arms,” she said. “Not yours.”
I asked if there was any way we could work something out.
She said, “Selfish children don’t have family rights.”
I left that night. No hug. No goodbye.
My kids asked why Auntie didn’t come with us.
I said she needed time. But maybe I was the one who needed it.
I thought inheritance was about money.
Turns out, it was about love, loyalty—and presence.
I lost my mother, and maybe now I’ve lost my sister too.
And the worst part is… I think I deserve it.