My wife, Alma, died of ovarian cancer two years after her diagnosis. My sister Sarah did nothing to help during that time—no visits, no calls, no support. At Alma’s wake, while I was still numb with grief, Sarah asked for her scarves and jewelry, as if doing me a favor. It stung, especially since Alma was so kind, enduring chemo and surgeries without complaint, while Sarah couldn’t even pick up her meds once.

I didn’t confront Sarah then, but when she later showed up with boxes to “help” sort Alma’s things, I snapped. I called out her absence during Alma’s illness. She left, offended, claiming she didn’t want to intrude. I saw it for what it was: she wanted souvenirs, not to mourn.

I donated Alma’s clothes to her favorite women’s shelter and kept her jewelry safe. Months later, a nurse named Noor gave me a letter from Alma, written before she passed. It told me to sell her silver bracelet for something joyful. Instead, I bought a boat, “The Alma Jean,” and started mentoring a boy named Rami. Through him, I shared Alma’s spirit.

Sarah later wrote, wanting to reconnect, but I didn’t respond. Alma taught me to choose light—through generosity, joy, and living fully, even in grief