For the last five years of my mother’s life, I was the one. I moved in. I cooked, I bathed her, I drove to every appointment, I slept in the chair by her bed. My brother Ron visited twice a year and called on holidays.
So when the lawyer read her will, I was sure I’d misheard. The house — to Ron. The savings — to Ron. The land my father left — to Ron. And to me, her daughter, her caregiver, one sealed white envelope.
I felt the blood drain from my face. Five years of my life. Every hard night, every indignity, every thing I gave up. And this was what she thought I was worth: an envelope, while my absent brother got it all.
Ron had the grace, at least, to look uncomfortable. I could barely see the room through the tears. I very nearly threw that envelope down and walked out without opening it.
But her name was on the front, in her shaky hand. So I sat back down, and I tore it open.
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