Families can grow from the same roots yet branch into very different shapes. My sister Samira and I were living proof. Raised by a single mother who juggled multiple jobs, we survived on her sacrifices and determination. The apartment was small, the winters bitter, and sometimes there wasn’t enough to eat. I remember Mrs. Jenkins’ soup drifting through the hall, and Mom always letting Samira and me eat first, quietly sipping her tea.
Years later, things improved. Mom found steadier work, and both Samira and I went to college. But Samira, younger and less aware of our struggles, grew into a woman who leaned on others, expecting comfort without effort. I, on the other hand, carried the memories of every lean year, shaping me into someone responsible and protective.
So when Mom called one evening, asking me to come over, I felt a chill. “Can you come? I need to talk,” she said.
At the kitchen table, her hands trembled around a cup of tea. “The doctors found something,” she whispered. “It’s my heart. They’ve given me a year at most.”
I was stunned. “There must be something—treatment, surgery. Anything!”
“I’m tired,” she said. “Please… don’t tell Samira yet.”
Mom wanted to shield Samira from the news until the right moment, but when she did tell her a month later, Samira’s reaction was explosive. She stormed over to my apartment, eyes blazing. “Stay away from Mom,” she demanded.
“She’s sick. She needs us,” I said.
“She doesn’t need you hovering for her inheritance. I’m moving in with her,” Samira said, her voice sharp. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Her words revealed her true motives. Samira blocked me at every turn, making excuses to keep me from Mom. But Mom and I maintained our quiet connection. One afternoon, she texted me, asking me to come over while Samira was out.
