I’m Lily, and for three years, I was the only daughter my mother had left. When she got sick, I gave up my dream career to be her full-time caregiver. I was the one at every doctor’s appointment, the one cleaning her, feeding her, and sitting by her bed through the long, terrifying nights. My sister, Sarah, was completely absent. She was out living her life, thriving in her career, while I was drowning in the physical and emotional toll of Mom’s decline. I felt a resentment so deep it felt permanent.
At Mom’s funeral, Sarah tried to hug me, and I snapped. I told her not to touch me, that she didn’t have the right to be there now that the hard work was over. Instead of fighting back, she handed me Mom’s journal and showed me her phone.
I went cold as I read the entries. Mom had written: “I told Sarah not to come back. Seeing one daughter sacrifice everything to wipe my chin is humiliating enough; I won’t have two. I want Sarah to remember me as I was.” Then I saw Sarah’s texts—47 times she had begged to visit, and 47 times Mom had told her, “Not yet. I’m not ready.”
Sarah looked at me and whispered, “She died before she was ever ready. You got to be there; I got ‘not yet’ for three years.” I realized then that while I was suffering through the caregiving, Sarah was suffering through a forced exile. But even knowing the truth, I can’t just flip a switch and forgive her. Mom’s “permission” doesn’t erase the three years I spent alone in the dark.
