My Selfish Sister Stayed by Mom’s Side When She Fell Ill, but Everything Changed after the Doctor Shared Mom’s Last Words
I took the envelope with trembling fingers. The doctor gave me a gentle nod before walking away, leaving me alone in the hallway. My legs buckled, and I sank onto the nearest bench.
It was Mom’s handwriting. Slanted, soft loops. Just seeing it brought tears to my eyes. I opened the letter carefully, like it was made of glass.
> “My darling,
> If you’re reading this, I’m no longer there to hold your hand. But I need you to know — I see you. I’ve always seen you.
> I know Samira locked you out. I know the lies she told. But I also knew the truth — that you came by every day, even when she wouldn’t let you in. That you left groceries at the door, sent letters I was never allowed to read, and cried outside my window when you thought no one was watching.
> I knew.
> I left everything to her because I had to — for now. She would’ve fought you, contested everything, and it would’ve dragged you into a legal nightmare. You’ve suffered enough.
> That’s why I gave you something she doesn’t know about. Something that can’t be stolen or twisted.
> Go to my favorite bookstore. The one with the creaky floors and the crooked sign. Tell the owner my name — she’ll know what to do.
> You are my heart. Always have been.
> Love,
> Mom.”
Tears streamed down my face as I clutched the letter to my chest.
The next morning, I drove across town to the little bookstore Mom and I used to visit every Sunday. It looked the same — cozy, dusty, magical.
The bell jingled as I walked in. A white-haired woman looked up from behind the counter.
“Can I help you?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “My mother was Layla Hassan.”
Her eyes softened instantly. Without another word, she disappeared into the back and returned with a dusty box tied with a ribbon.
Inside was a small leather journal, a bank statement, and a key.
The journal was filled with Mom’s handwriting — pages and pages of memories, advice, and love letters to me.
The bank statement? A private savings account in my name with a staggering amount of money.
And the key?
It belonged to a quiet little cottage just outside the city — hers. Ours. One she’d bought secretly years ago in case she ever needed peace from the chaos Samira brought.
I didn’t get the house everyone saw. But I got something better.
I got her truth.
I got her love.
And I got peace — finally.