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?
People will predict it since I’m the oldest.”
I nearly laughed. Of course. Now she wanted the spotlight.
“Sure,” I said flatly.
“Whatever you want.”
The day of the memorial arrived.
And then Doreen appeared, dressed in an expensive black dress I’d never seen before.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her makeup was subtle but perfect.
“It’s just so hard,” she muttered, loud enough for others to hear.
Throughout the service, I watched Doreen from the corner of my eye. She played her part perfectly. Anyone who didn’t know better would think she was the devoted daughter, overcome with grief.
I knew better.
During the reception at the church hall, people came to provide their condolences and told stories about Mom.
At that point, Doreen accepted sympathy as if she’d been by Mom’s side all along.
We had honored Mom properly, and soon I could go home and collapse.
That’s when Doreen clinked her glass with a spoon, drawing everyone’s attention.
“I’d like to say a few words,” she said.
“I just want to say,” she began, pausing for effect, “that I’m so grateful we could give Mom the goodbye she deserved.
“I did everything I could. I covered the funeral, and I know she would’ve been proud of the way we honored her.”
Excuse me? I thought.
Had I heard her correctly?
I looked around, wondering if anyone else noticed the blatant lie. But people were nodding sympathetically.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. What could I say without causing a scene?
This was my mother’s memorial, not the place for an ugly confrontation.
So, I forced a tight smile and said nothing.
But across the room, someone else was staring at Doreen with wide eyes.
Mr. Wilson, the funeral director.
He had come to pay his respects and, as promised, brought a copy of the final invoice I’d asked him to hand to me quietly. I watched as he glanced from Doreen to me, his brow furrowed.
He approached Doreen instead of me, a leather folder tucked under his arm.
“I just have one little question for you, Doreen,” he said, his voice gentle but clear enough for those nearby to hear.
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