When doctors told me my stage 4 cancer was terminal and I had about six months left, I didn’t panic. Instead, I looked around and realized who was actually standing by my side. For years, I had been the one chasing my children—calling them, begging for visits, and enduring short, rushed phone calls. When I got sick, their behavior didn’t change; they only visited if I asked, and even then, they seemed distracted.However, someone else kept showing up: Maria. She was the nurse who had cared for my late husband. After he passed, she stayed in touch just to check on me. When I received my own diagnosis, she stepped in to care for me full-time without ever mentioning money.
The breaking point with my children came during one of their rare visits. Instead of asking how I was feeling, the conversation immediately shifted to paperwork, my property, and their inheritance. My son actually lost his temper and shouted, “The house is mine!” I just smiled and told them they’d all get a “fair share.”Late that night, I asked myself: Who has treated me like I actually matter? The answer was Maria. Without telling a soul, I updated my will. When I finally sat my children down and told them I had left everything to Maria, the room went silent. My son turned red and my daughters started crying, but I stood my ground. I told them that inheritance isn’t about blood—it’s about presence. For the first time in months, I felt true peace.
