Life with my husband, Chris, and our kids, Ava and Max, was a happy blend of school plays and family dinners. Mom’s cancer diagnosis changed everything. I became her support, handling appointments, meals, and later, full care. My sister, Janet, lived nearby but was absent, citing work. “You’re better at this,” she’d say, ignoring Mom’s wish for her presence. I protected Mom, covering for Janet, though her questions about her eldest daughter broke my heart.
When Mom passed, I was by her side, rain tapping outside. Janet cried on the phone but dodged funeral costs. “I can’t help,” she said, so I used our college fund for a loving service—lilies, Mom’s church, and a slideshow I made alone. Janet asked to speak at the memorial, wanting attention. I agreed, too tired to resist. At the service, Janet arrived in a sleek dress, acting the devoted daughter, taking sympathy. I stayed quiet, ensuring Mom’s day was peaceful, with Chris’s support.
During the reception, Janet raised her glass. “I paid for this tribute,” she announced. I was shocked—she’d contributed nothing. I held back, not wanting a scene. Then, Mr. Lane, the funeral director, approached Janet with a folder. “Your sister paid it all,” he said clearly. The room stilled, Janet’s face reddening. “I meant in spirit,” she faltered, but her lie was clear. Guests turned to me, Mom’s friend, Mrs. Ward, saying, “You did right.” Janet’s apology later met my, “Stop.” Driving home, rain falling, Mom’s lesson shone—truth prevails gently, proving my love was enough.
