I was the one who stood by my mom through everything—through the hospital visits, the sleepless nights, the painful goodbyes. So when she passed, I expected the house would go to me. I was the one who stayed. I gave up everything.
But at the reading of the will, my world flipped.
She left everything to Phoebe—my unpredictable, emotionally fragile younger sister. I was stunned. I’d cared for Mom day in and day out. Phoebe hadn’t even shown up half the time. And now she was the heir to everything?
My husband Dan didn’t help matters. He’d been pushing me to contest the will, fuming that all my sacrifices were being ignored. But something about his urgency felt… off.
Then, one night, I found a stack of overdue bills in his office. Dan was drowning in debt. And suddenly, it all made sense—why he’d pushed so hard for the house. It wasn’t about fairness. It was about fixing his mess.
And I was supposed to clean it up.
I confronted Phoebe, ready for another fight. But something shifted between us. We finally talked—not as enemies, but as sisters. We admitted our jealousy, our guilt, our pain. And for the first time in years, we truly saw each other.
I chose not to fight her anymore. I wouldn’t sell my dignity to cover Dan’s gambling losses. Instead, I walked away from him, supported Phoebe’s flower shop, and accepted a job abroad—a dream I’d shelved for too long.
Mom may have left me nothing in her will, but in losing everything, I found something more important: myself.