I always believed I was my mom’s favorite: a weekly phone call, holiday visits, even footing her medical bills. My brother? Rarely called, skipped celebrations, only resurfaced when he needed a hand.
Still, I never resented it. I left home at 18, worked hard, and built my life. He stayed, jobless into his 30s. I chalked it up to mom’s leniency—after all, she was his mother too.
Then she passed.
At the will reading, the shock hit in waves. I wasn’t mentioned—not even once. The house, her savings, every sentimental item, even a ring she’d promised me, went to my brother.
Turning, I saw the lawyer hand me an envelope. Inside was a letter in Mom’s handwriting:
“You built your own life. He still needs a chance.”
So the daughter who gave her support and love got nothing—while the one who didn’t get everything.
It wasn’t the money that hurt. It was feeling erased, like my loyalty and sacrifices meant nothing. In that moment, I realized that the story we lived wasn’t the same story she was telling.
