When our mother fell sick, I was the one who took care of her. When she passed, I prepared every detail of the funeral.
But at the memorial, my sister stood up and took all the credit.
What occured next wasn’t loud or dramatic, but she never experienced it coming.
I married my high school sweetheart, Mark, right after college. We have two beautiful children, Emma, 15, and Jack, 12.
We weren’t rich, but we were happy.
Then, last spring, Mom called with the news that transformed my world upside down.
“The doctor found something,” she said in a trembling voice.
“It’s canc3r, Emily.”
I’d stop by three times a week, cook a few meals she could reheat, and pick up her groceries. Mark was happy about it, taking over more with the kids so I could be there for Mom.
“You’re an angel,” Mom would say.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
As weeks turned into months, the canc3r developed.
Soon, Mom needed help getting dressed, bathing, and even walking to the bathroom.
And Doreen, my older sister? Nowhere to be found.
“I called Doreen again,” I told Mom.
“She said she’s flooded at work.
Some big project.”
“That’s alright. She’s always been so career-oriented. I’m proud of her for that.” Mom said.
But I saw the hurt in her eyes.
When I called to update her on Mom’s condition, Doreen always had reasons ready.
“You know how it is, Em,” she’d say with a sigh.
“Work is crazy.
And honestly, I don’t have the mental bandwidth right now. Hospitals depress me. You’re so much better at this stuff.”
To be honest, this wasn’t good behavior.
I’d look at Mom, waiting for her to notice, to say something.
But she never did.
Instead, she’d just wave and tell me, “That’s just how she is.
You know your sister.”
“Has Doreen called?” she’d ask. “Maybe she could visit this weekend?”
I’d make up gentle respond, sparing Mom the truth that her eldest daughter couldn’t look after mom.
“She sends her love,” I’d lie. “She’s trying to prepare things up so she can take some time off.”
On a cold Tuesday morning in January, Mom passed away while I held her hand.
When I finally called Doreen, she cried on the phone.
Real tears, it seemed.
Naturally, I predicted her to prepare for the funeral arrangements. But I guess I should have known better.
“Emily, I’m sorry, but I just can’t help financially right now,” she said.
“I wish I could. But you’re the one who’s always been better at this kind of thing.”
“Fine,” was all I managed to say before hanging up.
Mark found me at the kitchen table later that night, surrounded by brochures from funeral homes.
“She’s not helping at all, is she?” he asked.
“When has she ever?”
So, I did what I always do.
I managed it.
I paid for everything, including the casket with the satin lining, the service at her favorite church and the arrangement of white lilies and pink roses.
I maxed out our credit card and our savings. It was the money we’d been collecting for Emma’s college fund.
Two days before the funeral, Doreen finally called.
“I’ve been thinking about what I could say,” she said. “Maybe I should speak at the service?
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