Mara always believed love meant sacrifice, until sacrifice hollowed her out. When her younger sister fell ill, their mother drained every account, sold everything she owned, and even borrowed against Mara’s inheritance without asking. Doctors came and went, bills stacked up, and Mara watched the future she had planned quietly disappear.
Her sister died just after turning eighteen. Grief turned into anger. Months later, when their mother showed up at Mara’s door with a single bag, thin and exhausted, Mara finally said the words she had carried for years. She told her mother she owed her nothing. That her future had been destroyed. Her mother only smiled sadly and walked away.
The next morning, Mara’s husband handed her his phone. A message from an unknown number filled the screen. It was from her mother.
The message showed a photo of a folded document beside her sister’s silver locket. Under it were a few lines: “I never touched your inheritance. I spent my own savings. The account is only in your name. I kept this locket for when you were ready.” There was an address.
Mara rushed there. It was a shelter on the edge of town. The receptionist lowered her eyes. “She left before dawn.”
Days later, Mara checked the account. Not a cent was missing. Instead, there were small deposits with notes: “For Mara’s college.” “For Mara’s wedding.” “For Mara’s future.”
Now Mara keeps the locket by her bed. She visits shelters with food and blankets, still searching faces in every crowd. And every night, she whispers an apology into the dark, hoping her mother can hear it.
