Loss can bond siblings, but for me, it exposed my sister’s betrayal. I never thought she’d deceive me until she cried at Mom’s funeral, then stole my inheritance before the pain eased. I stood in Mom’s familiar kitchen, her scent of jasmine lotion and black tea still lingering. A month after her passing, I couldn’t move her things, not even the worn potholders she loved. I was wiping down her cups when my sister, Hannah, walked in, her bright energy clashing with my grief.
“Emma, still cleaning?” Hannah said, taking a plum from the counter. At 30, she looked ready for a photoshoot in her trendy jacket and boots, while I, 34, felt plain in my hoodie, the loyal barista I was. “It keeps Mom near,” I said. Hannah shrugged. “We grieve differently.” I held back my anger. I’d cared for Mom for years—cooking, paying bills, fixing her home—while Hannah showed up for holidays or quick visits. “Talked to the lawyer?” she asked, texting.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “Coming?” She laughed. “Busy, but call me!” She squeezed my hand and left, her lightness unsettling me. The next day, I sat in the lawyer’s office, the air heavy with ink and wood. “The will gives everything to Hannah,” Mr. Reed said. My heart stopped. “No, Mom changed it last year. I was there. I got the house for upkeep; Hannah got the savings.” He shook his head. “No record. The will’s old.”
I was stunned. “I saw her sign it!” Mr. Reed said the old lawyer, Mr. Cole, retired, and no new will was filed. Driving home, I felt sick. Hannah was at the house, smiling oddly. “Know about the will?” she said. “How?” I asked. She shrugged. “Called the lawyer. It’s fair.” My voice shook. “I paid bills. I cared for her!” Hannah snapped, “Your choice.” Suspicion hit. “You knew about the new will, didn’t you?” She looked away. “No clue.”
I couldn’t sleep, sensing a lie. Days later, the locks were changed. Hannah stood at the door. “You’re out,” she said. “I’m building shops here.” My heart broke. “This is my home!” She pointed to my stuff in the garage and shut the door, laughing on her phone. I crashed at my friend Mia’s, hiring a lawyer, but without proof, I was stuck. Then a call came. “I’m Liam, a paralegal,” he said. “Your sister bragged about destroying the will at a party.”
My heart raced. Liam recorded Hannah, drunk, laughing about shredding the will and forging Mom’s signature. “I’ll testify,” he said. At a diner, I heard her voice, gloating. The courts froze the house and Hannah’s accounts, investigating her fraud. Her desperate texts went unanswered. One night, she showed up at Mia’s, crying. “I’m facing jail,” she said. “You were Mom’s favorite.” I stood firm. “I was there. You stole.” She sobbed. “I’m alone.” Childhood memories softened me. “Couch, one night,” I said.
Months later, I reclaimed Mom’s house. Hannah got probation, thanks to my leniency. She visited, offering Mom’s ruby brooch. “Yours,” she said. I offered tea. “Really?” she asked. “We’re sisters,” I said. “Trust’s hard, but we can start.” We talked, honest and tearful, for hours. “I can’t fix it,” she said, leaving. “But I’ll try.” I called, “Next week?” Her small smile sparked hope. Mom said we’d need each other. Forgiveness doesn’t erase betrayal, but it opens a door to healing.
