Mom raised us alone in a drafty apartment, skipping meals so Samira and I could eat. Years later, when the doctor gave Mom twelve months to live, Samira swooped in like a saint: she moved into Mom’s house, blocked my visits, and painted me as the absent daughter “only interested in inheritance.” I swallowed my rage—until the hospital bills ballooned and Mom slipped away. Minutes after her last breath, Samira shoved a will at me claiming everything. That’s when the doctor handed me a sealed envelope Mom had hidden: a newer will, a secret account, and a single sentence— “I see real care.” Mom’s last gift wasn’t money; it was proof that true devotion can’t be faked.