My name is Anna. When my mother, Marlene, passed away three months ago, I flew home from Chicago immediately, leaving my job behind without a thought. For the last six weeks of her life, I was her constant caretaker, helping her sort through bills and letters, and sitting with her in silence. I noticed she’d often update documents, saying, “Just in case,” but I never questioned it. My sister, Caitlin, however, only showed up twice, once dropping off a store-bought pie and later rummaging through the hall closet for jewelry. She barely looked at Mom, insisting, “It’s just too hard, Anna. I’m not strong like you.” I was too exhausted to argue, telling myself everyone processes pain differently, but deep down, a shadow of doubt about her sincerity lingered.
After the funeral, I returned to Chicago and tried to find peace, but two weeks later, Caitlin’s clinical email arrived: “Mom’s Will.” I opened the document on my laptop, and the pain became betrayal. Everything—the house, the savings, the belongings—was left to Caitlin. I wasn’t mentioned, not in a single line. I scrolled back up, convinced I had missed a clause. I called her immediately, my voice shaking. “Yeah, Mom wanted me to have everything,” she said, her voice completely steady. “I mean, you’ve got your life, right? You have your own thing going, so we’re all good, right?” I struggled to reconcile her cold dismissal with the love I had poured into caring for Mom. Was all that time truly for nothing?
Weeks passed, and I tried to accept the injustice, but my limit finally cracked when a family friend messaged me: “Did you hear? The house is being listed, Anna. They’re tearing it down.” My heart raced with a sudden, sharp, protective instinct. I couldn’t let them demolish the porch swing, the hallway where our heights were tracked, or Mom’s reading chair. I wouldn’t let it go. That night, I scraped together every cent, cashing out my emergency savings and listing designer bags online. By morning, I had enough cash to text Caitlin, who responded five minutes later with alarming excitement: “Cash? Perfect! You’re doing me a favor, Anna!” I wired the funds, biting back my anger, knowing I had saved our home, even if it meant financial ruin.
The day I received the keys, I stood on the porch, waiting for Mom’s voice, but only silence answered. The air inside was stale, but the memories were loud. I hired a small, kind contractor named Mikey to begin restoration work, not demolition, aiming to restore the house to its former glory. Mikey had gentle eyes and didn’t ask questions when I broke down in Mom’s closet. On the third day of prep, I was in the kitchen when I heard his calm voice call out from the hallway. “Anna? You’re going to want to see this.” He was kneeling in Mom’s bedroom, the floorboards pulled back, holding out a thin, yellowed envelope. My name was written on the front, in Marlene’s unmistakable, looping handwriting.
My fingers trembled as I took the envelope, which smelled faintly of rose water and dust. Inside were two documents: a folded letter and a will, Mom’s real will. It was dated eight months earlier than the version Caitlin had sent me, and it split everything—the house, the savings, the heirlooms—right down the middle. It was clearly notarized, proving Caitlin’s version was not just wrong, but a blatant forgery. My stomach churned with a mixture of betrayal and raw rage. I called Mr. Benson, Mom’s lawyer, within the hour and told him everything. He cautioned me about the seriousness of the forgery, warning that Caitlin might go to great lengths to protect what she thought was hers, but I knew I had to face her.
The next evening, I invited Caitlin over under the guise of discussing the renovations, and she showed up late, heels clicking on the hardwood. I poured us Earl Grey and placed the documents on the table. “What’s this?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You tell me, Caitlin. The truth.” She lifted the top page, her smile faltering as she realized her scheme had failed. Caitlin couldn’t contest the genuine, notarized will. The legal process that followed shifted the assets to reflect Marlene’s true wishes. Later, I found a final letter hidden in a shoebox in the attic, addressed only to me: “I want you to have our home. You were always the one who cared for it, who loved it, and who made it a home.” Holding that note, I finally felt the true, unconditional peace that had eluded me since Mom’s passing.
