Families may grow from the same roots but branch in very different ways. My sister Samira and I were proof of that. Raised by our single mother, who bore the weight of two parents while juggling multiple jobs to keep us fed, clothed, and loved. Even as a kid, I felt the quiet strength she carried to hold us all together.
I still remember those tough years. Our apartment was tiny and cold, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones during winter. Sometimes there wasn’t enough to eat. I can’t forget the smell of Mrs. Jenkins’ soup drifting down the hall before she knocked and handed us a warm pot. Mom always insisted she wasn’t hungry, sipping her tea while Samira and I ate. Even then, I knew she was making sacrifices for us.
Things got better over time. Mom found steadier work, and we moved into a modest but warmer home. Both Samira and I made it to college, though Samira, being younger, barely remembered the hard times. She grew into someone who avoided responsibility and leaned on others for comfort.
I carried those hungry nights in my heart. They made me cautious, responsible, and fiercely protective of Mom. So when she called that evening, her voice trembling, I knew something was wrong.
When I got there, she sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Her eyes, usually so bright, were dull with exhaustion. Gently, she told me she had a serious heart condition—doctors said a year at best, maybe less. I begged her to fight it, promising to pay whatever was needed, but she only shook her head. “A year with treatment, months without. I’m tired, Nicole. I just want peace. And please—don’t tell Samira yet.”
