George’s absence haunted our home, his memory wrapped in the soft fabric of the shirt I clutched each night. The faint scent of his cologne still lingered, a cruel reminder of the love we shared. Yet, as painful as losing him was, nothing compared to the heartbreak that followed—the betrayal of the daughter I had once called my own.
I’m Mariana, 57 years old, and for 25 beautiful years, I was married to the most wonderful man, George. He had a daughter, Susan, from his first marriage. When we first met, she was just nine years old, and from the very beginning, I loved her as if she were my own. She called me “Mom,” confided in me, and I never thought of her as anything less than my child.
But when George was diagnosed with terminal cancer, everything changed. At first, Susan visited often, checking on him and spending time by his side. But as the months passed, her visits became less frequent.
Then, one day, she called me, her voice distant and impatient. “How many more days does he have left?”
I gripped the phone so tightly that my knuckles turned white. “Susan, your father isn’t some product with an expiration date,” I snapped, barely able to contain my anger.
“I just want to know, Mom. I’m busy. You know that… I can’t be visiting all the time.”
“Too busy to see your dying father?” I asked, my voice shaking with disbelief.
She sighed. “Look, I’ll try to visit soon, okay?”
But “soon” never came. And then, the inevitable happened.
When the hospital called to tell me that George had passed peacefully in his sleep, I collapsed onto the floor, the weight of my grief crushing me. But even in the depths of my sorrow, I held onto the hope that Susan would be there. That she would come, stand by my side, and say her final goodbye to her father.
She didn’t.
Instead, when I called her, she had a ready-made excuse. “You know I just had my baby last month, Mom. The doctors advised against long travel. It’s risky.”
“Susan, it’s your father’s funeral,” I whispered, my heart breaking. “Don’t you want to see him one last time?”
“I can’t risk my baby’s health. You understand, right?”
No, I didn’t. But I swallowed my grief, nodded, and lied. “Of course, sweetie. Take care.”
Six months later, I was still struggling to find my footing when an unexpected knock on my door shattered what little peace I had left. When I opened it, Susan and her husband, Doug, stood there, flanked by a man in a stiff suit.
Susan stepped inside without so much as a greeting. “Mom, we need you to sign some papers.”
“What papers?” I asked, my stomach twisting.
Doug shoved a thick stack into my hands. “These. Just sign at the bottom.”
I flipped through the pages, my breath catching when I realized what they were. “You want me to sign over everything to you?” My voice wavered in disbelief.
Susan folded her arms. “Yes. Dad’s assets. They belong to me now. It’s only fair.”
“Fair?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Fair would have been you showing up at your father’s funeral! Fair would have been you caring for him when he needed you most!”
Susan’s face twisted with irritation. “Mom, let’s not be dramatic. Just sign the papers.”
I shook my head, anger simmering beneath my skin. “No. You need to leave. Now.”
Her face darkened. “You’re not even my real mother!” she spat. “You have no right to anything here!”
The words hit me like a slap. After everything I had done for her, after years of love, she dismissed me like I was nothing.
“Get out of my house!” I yelled, my vision blurred with tears. “Your father would be heartbroken if he saw you like this. He always believed you were better than this.”
Susan’s voice rose in fury. “You think you can just keep everything? This isn’t over!”
I stood my ground. “You’re right. It isn’t. But I promise you, Susan, you won’t get a single thing from me.”
Days passed, but Susan didn’t give up. She called, she sent messages, she even threatened legal action. Worn down, I finally agreed to meet with my lawyer to settle things once and for all.
A week later, Susan stormed into my house, her face red with fury, waving a document in the air. “HOW DID YOU DO THIS?!” she screeched. “All I get is $3,000 and Dad’s old Mustang? Where’s everything else?”
I took the paper from her, glancing at it with a small smile. “Exactly what your father left for you,” I said calmly.
“Where’s the house? The SUV? The farmhouse?!” she shrieked.
My lawyer, who had been waiting for this moment, finally spoke. “Everything was transferred to Mariana years ago. Mr. Anderson ensured that she would be taken care of. What remains in his name is what you see in that document.”
Susan’s face paled. “No! This isn’t right! He would never do that!”
I met her furious gaze with steady calm. “Oh, but he did. And you? You got exactly what you asked for—your father’s assets.”
I watched as realization dawned on her. The inheritance she had so greedily demanded was nothing but scraps. And I? I was free.
In the weeks that followed, I sold everything—the house, the SUV, the farmhouse. I made a small fortune and used it to start fresh in a place I had always dreamed of living.
One day, I got a call from an old friend. “Mariana, I thought you should know… Susan tried to take you to court.”
I chuckled softly. “Let me guess, it didn’t work?”
“Not at all. Everything was in your name. She has nothing.”
I thanked her and hung up, feeling a strange mix of sadness and relief. Susan was no longer my problem.
One afternoon, my phone rang with an unknown number. When I answered, a man’s voice filled my ear. “Mrs. Anderson, I’m calling on behalf of Susan. She wants to meet with you.”
I let out a slow breath. “No. I have nothing more to say to her.”
As I ended the call, I felt something lift from my shoulders.
George had taken care of me, even in death. He had given me the means to live a life free from greed and betrayal.
And now? Now, I intended to live that life to the fullest, just as he would have wanted.
