The hospital waiting room smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee when I finally sat down. I’d raced there the moment my stepmother collapsed, the sirens still echoing in my ears. My hands shook as I dialed her daughter, Lina, because she had always said, “Let me know when it’s over.” The words felt cold now, but I repeated them to myself like a duty. When the doctor came out two days later with tired eyes and a soft voice, I made that call. Lina didn’t cry. She simply said, “I’ll handle everything,” and hung up before I could speak again.

The funeral was small. Lina moved through it like a queen in black, greeting guests, signing papers, accepting condolences. I stood quietly in the back, feeling like a piece of furniture no one noticed. When the will was read, it was exactly as Lina predicted: the house, the savings, the jewelry—everything went to her. I was left with a single envelope containing a handwritten note and a small potted jade plant. Lina smirked as she passed me, whispering, “She kept you around for convenience. I hope this teaches you something.” I didn’t answer. I just carried the plant home, unsure whether to feel grateful or foolish.