When cancer forced me to move back into my mother’s house, I thought she would finally step up, show me some kindness, and help me through treatment. I imagined she’d make soup for me on the bad days, drive me to appointments, maybe even sit with me when I felt too weak to stand.
But I was wrong.
Instead, she handed me a daily chore list, stole my food benefits, and even sold my car without asking. I was too sick to fight back—until my best friend saw what was happening and refused to let it continue.
I’m only 24 years old, and I’ve been battling stomach cancer for the past eight months. The diagnosis came on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. My doctor walked into the room holding a clipboard, his face pale, his eyes flickering with pity. He looked almost as shocked as I was.
In that moment, everything I thought I knew about my life shattered. One day I was a healthy young woman with my own job and my own apartment. The next, I was staring at test results that flipped my whole world upside down.
For years, I’d lived far away from my mother. We never had a good relationship. Even when I was a teenager, I worked part-time jobs after school, saving every penny I could so I could leave her house.
Her coldness always cut deep. She made me feel like I was nothing more than a burden, like she was forced to tolerate me instead of loving me. I still remember the day I turned 18 and carried my boxes into a tiny studio apartment with peeling paint and a leaky faucet. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was freedom.
But cancer doesn’t care about your freedom. It doesn’t care about your independence. It crashes into your life like a wrecking ball.
The medical bills started piling up immediately. My health insurance covered some of the chemotherapy, but not enough. There were co-pays, medications, special bland foods I needed to survive, and transportation to appointments three times a week.
I tried to keep working, but the exhaustion hit me like a truck. Some days, I couldn’t even get out of bed. Other days, I’d drag myself to work only to end up throwing up in the bathroom during lunch.
Eventually, I had to quit. Without my income, rent became impossible. My savings vanished in weeks. I sold my TV, my furniture, and anything else I could. But it still wasn’t enough.
With nowhere else to turn, I packed my few remaining belongings and moved back to my mother’s house. A small, desperate part of me hoped this nightmare would bring us closer. Maybe she’d finally care. Maybe she’d finally show me love.
I was wrong again.
From the first week, it was clear I wasn’t her daughter in her eyes—I was her maid. Every morning, I’d wake up to find a list taped to the refrigerator. Not a small list, but a full day’s worth of chores written out hour by hour.
- “9:00 a.m. – sweep the kitchen and mop the floors.”
- “10:30 – scrub both bathrooms, don’t forget the grout.”
- “12:00 – make lunch for me and my book club friends.”
- “1:30 – fold all the laundry and put it away.”
- “3:00 – start repainting the backyard fence.”
- “5:00 – vacuum the living room and dust the shelves.”
The lists never ended. It didn’t matter that I was in the middle of chemotherapy. It didn’t matter that some days I couldn’t even keep water down.
When I tried to protest, she always brushed me off with the same cold words:
“You’re home all day anyway. What else are you doing? Sitting around feeling sorry for yourself?”
Even when chemo left me so weak I could barely stand, she demanded everything be done. And if I couldn’t, she accused me of being lazy.
“Other people work through worse,” she snapped once. “You’re not special.”
Things got worse when my SNAP benefits came through. The EBT card was supposed to help me buy plain foods that my fragile stomach could handle. But my mother snatched the card out of my hand.
“You’re too weak to shop,” she said. “I’ll manage this for you. It’s easier.”
At first, I was relieved. I thought, maybe she’s actually helping. But soon I realized what she was really doing.
The pantry filled up with chips, candy, frozen pizzas, and soda—things I couldn’t touch without getting sick. Meanwhile, the rice, crackers, and broth I needed never showed up.
When I confronted her, she shrugged. “I bought what was on sale. Don’t be ungrateful.”
It didn’t stop there. Even when I was sitting in a chemo chair, hooked up to an IV, she blew up my phone with demands.
“Stop at the store on your way home. Get milk, bread, and cookies.”
“Don’t forget to vacuum when you get back.”
“You need to wash my car today. It’s filthy.”
I typed back once: “Mom, I’m in chemo right now. I can barely walk afterward.”
Her reply?
“Do you remember Mrs. Patterson from next door? She had cancer too, and she still worked full-time and cleaned her house. You’re young. Stop making excuses.”
Reading those words while poison dripped into my veins felt like being punched.
And then came the final blow.
One day, after a brutal chemo session, I got home and looked out the window. The driveway was empty. My car was gone.
Panicked, I called my mother.
“Mom, where’s my car? Was it towed?”
“Oh, that,” she said casually. “I sold it last week.”
My stomach dropped. “You WHAT?”
“You don’t need it. You barely leave the house. I can drive you to appointments. The money went toward rent and bills. Living here isn’t free.”
“That was my car,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “You can’t just sell my property without asking me.”
“It was in my driveway,” she snapped. “You’re living under my roof. Do you want to keep living here or not? Be grateful I’m taking care of things.”
That was the moment I realized the truth: in her mind, nothing was mine. Not my money, not my time, not my body. Everything was hers to control.
It all changed the day my friend Mara drove me home. She saw my face, pale and drained, and asked what was wrong. I broke down and told her everything—the chores, the stolen food benefits, the texts during chemo, and finally, the car.
Her face turned red with anger.
“Lena, this isn’t just unfair. This is abuse. She’s exploiting you while you’re literally fighting for your life. You can’t stay here.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I said weakly.
“Yes, you do,” Mara said firmly. “You’re coming home with me. Right now. We’re packing your things.”
And that’s exactly what we did.
That first night at Mara’s place, she made me tea I could actually drink and sat with me while I cried. For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt safe. No chore list waiting for me in the morning. No buzzing phone with endless demands. Just peace.
But Mara wasn’t done. She was furious.
“What she did isn’t just cruel, Lena. It’s illegal. She sold your car without permission. She stole your food benefits. We’re reporting this.”
I was terrified. My mother had spent years convincing me no one would take my side. That I was always the problem. But Mara wouldn’t let me back down. She sat with me during every phone call, held my hand during every interview, and refused to let me minimize what happened.
The officer who took my statement nodded seriously.
“This is clear financial exploitation of a vulnerable adult. We’ll investigate fully.”
The investigation moved fast. My mother couldn’t prove she had the right to sell my car. The misuse of my SNAP benefits was undeniable. Within two weeks, social services forced her to repay what she stole and permanently removed her access to my account. They warned her any further violations could mean criminal charges.
Then came the knock at Mara’s door.
I knew it was her before Mara even opened it. My body froze. My mother stood there, arms crossed, eyes full of rage.
“What did you do?” she hissed. “They’re saying I owe money. They’re saying I sold the car illegally. Is this your doing? Do you realize what you’ve done to me?”
She pointed at me, her finger sharp like a weapon. “You need to come back right now and fix this. After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me? You’re selfish. You’re ungrateful. I gave you a roof over your head, food to eat, and this is the thanks I get? You’ve ruined everything!”
For the first time, I didn’t crumble. I saw her words for what they were: desperation to regain control.
I took a shaky breath. “No. I’m not coming back. You don’t own me. You’re going to face the consequences.”
Her eyes widened in shock. She screamed insults, called me names, threatened me. But Mara stepped forward, calm and steady, and closed the door in her face.
Her shouting faded in the hallway until finally there was silence.
Now, I’m free.
Social services restored my benefits. The car situation is still in legal hands, but it’s being investigated as theft. She had to repay the money she stole, and she’s been warned that any more violations will bring serious charges.
She still calls sometimes—some voicemails are sweet and apologetic, others are full of venom. But I don’t listen anymore.
Cancer has taken so much from me—my strength, my hair, my energy. But I refuse to let her take my dignity.
Living with Mara, I’m healing—not just physically, but emotionally. For the first time, I know I deserve better.
My mother didn’t lose me because of cancer. She lost me because she chose cruelty over love.
And that’s something no fine, no punishment, will ever change.