My mother’s cruelty didn’t start that night. It had been simmering my whole life.
When I was a child, she adored my older half-sister, Brittany. Every sneeze earned sympathy and praise. When I sneezed, I was told to keep quiet. My father, a hospital doctor, was rarely home. When he was, he gave me a pat on the shoulder and a tired smile — the kind of love you cling to when there’s no other kind around.
Three years ago, when my father’s health began to fail, my mother called. “He needs help,” she said. “You’re a nurse.”
So Hannah and I moved back into the house I grew up in. For a time, it almost felt like family again. I managed his care, and for once, my mother’s sharp edges softened — at least when others were watching.
When Dad passed away, she changed overnight. The grief lasted less than the funeral flowers. Within days she was rearranging furniture, painting rooms, and humming like she’d been waiting for this reset. My father’s bedroom became a playroom for Brittany’s kids. His books vanished. His photo disappeared from the hallway.
One night, I overheard her whispering to Brittany, “It makes sense for you to move in. Rent’s too high anyway. Elena will leave soon — she was only here for your father.”
That was when I realized: I wasn’t family. I was an inconvenience.
The Letter My Mother Never Expected
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