We were close. I called, visited, paid her bills. My brother? Absent, jobless. After her death, I learned she’d erased me from the will a year earlier. Everything went to him. The lawyer read her note: “You always took care of me, and I wanted your brother to finally feel responsible for something.”
At first, I just sat there, stunned. My heart was pounding like I’d been punched in the chest. I thought it had to be a mistake. Maybe the lawyer misread something. Maybe there was another envelope. Something.
When Mom passed, her house and savings went to my brother, Radu—the one who hadn’t been there. I was crushed, not for the money, but for the message: she wanted him to feel responsible. For months, we didn’t speak. Then he called, broken and lost, asking for help. Against my instincts, I met him. Slowly, through memories and hard work, we turned her house into “Casa Ana,” a shelter for women in need. Healing came in paint, repairs, and shared purpose. I didn’t just gain peace—I regained my brother. Sometimes, loss becomes the path to something greater.
