I was devastated when Mom died, but nothing prepared me for what came next. My younger sister Emily inherited the house—while I got an old stroller and a filthy doll. I felt betrayed. I’d cared for Emily like a second mother, even when Mom barely noticed me. Furious and heartbroken, I left, cutting ties with Emily and burying the stroller in my storage room, intending to sell it for rent money.
Ten years passed. I’d built a life in New York, forgotten the pain—until I unearthed that stroller while moving. Beneath the doll’s cushion, I found a letter from Mom. She hadn’t abandoned me. The doll was a rare antique worth thousands. She’d left it for me, believing I’d use the money to chase my dream of becoming a designer. She gave Emily the house out of fear she’d never stand on her own. I cried for hours.
I tried calling Emily, but she never answered. So I flew to Florida, hoping to find her. The house was long sold, and no one knew where she’d gone. Just as I was about to give up, I saw a frail woman begging on the street. It was Emily. She broke down when she saw me, apologizing for everything. She’d tried to reach me but couldn’t. The money from the house was gone, and she had nowhere to go.
I took her in, fed her, and brought her back to New York. I gave her a job at my sewing factory. We rebuilt our bond from scratch. What began as bitterness turned into healing. Mom’s final gift wasn’t just the doll—it was the chance to forgive, to reconnect, and to love again.
