I’m Sarah, married to my college love, Tom, with two kids, Lily, 15, and Ben, 12. Our life was cozy—school runs, soccer games, and porch chats. Last spring, Mom called, her voice shaky. “It’s cancer,” she said. At first, I helped with doctor visits and meal prep. Tom stepped up with the kids, letting me focus on Mom. “You’re a blessing,” Mom would say, squeezing my hand. As her cancer worsened, I was there daily, helping her dress and walk. My older sister, Karen, lived nearby but never showed, always citing work.
I called Karen with updates, but she brushed me off. “Work’s insane,” she’d say. “You’re better at this, Sarah.” Mom’s eyes dimmed when I made excuses for Karen’s absence. This wasn’t new—Karen always took credit without effort, like claiming our childhood crafts as hers. Mom would smile, saying, “That’s just Karen.” As Mom grew weaker, she asked about Karen more. I lied, saying Karen sent love, to spare her pain. One rainy January morning, Mom passed as I held her hand, her breaths fading.
I hoped Karen would help with the funeral, but she refused. “I can’t pay,” she said. “You’ve got this.” I hung up, drained. Tom found me buried in funeral plans. “She’s not helping?” he asked. I shook my head. I paid for everything—Mom’s favorite oak casket, her church service, roses, and a lunch for guests. I used our savings, meant for Lily’s college. Alone, I made a slideshow of Mom’s life—her young, her with Karen, her at my wedding. Two days before the funeral, Karen called, wanting to speak at the service. “Sure,” I said, knowing she craved attention.
At the memorial, I greeted guests with Tom and the kids. Karen arrived in a chic black dress, playing the grieving daughter, accepting hugs and sympathy. I bit my tongue, remembering Mom’s pain. During the reception, Karen clinked her glass. “I gave Mom the send-off she deserved,” she said. “I covered everything.” My jaw dropped. She lied to everyone. I wanted to shout but stayed quiet—it was Mom’s day. Then, Mr. Hayes, the funeral director, approached Karen, holding a folder with my receipt.
“Is this yours?” he asked loudly. “Sarah paid it all. It’s rare to see someone handle so much alone.” The room froze. Karen’s face turned red. “I meant emotionally,” she stammered. No one bought it. Guests drifted to me, Mom’s friend, Mrs. Lee, saying, “Your mom would be proud.” Karen tried to talk later, but I cut her off. “Don’t.” She left silently. Driving home, rain on the windshield, I felt peace. Mom taught me truth outshines lies. Karen’s deception exposed itself, and I stood tall, honoring Mom’s lessons.
