At 28, I never expected to feel so worn out by life. It’s like living in a grim soap opera. The worst was what my sister did after Dad died and we read his will.

I’ve been a widow for three years. My husband died in a car crash coming home from work. One minute, I was texting him about dinner; the next, I was in the hospital, holding his cold hand, saying it’d be okay when it wasn’t.

After his funeral, I spent more time with my parents—loss pulls you closer. Mostly, I couldn’t stand the quiet in our house. My son, Leona, was four then.

He needed stability, and so did I. Then Dad’s health started failing. At first, it was small things—forgetting appointments, losing words, like parts of him were slipping away.

Soon, it was clear he was dying. My mom, Eloise, tried to help, but at nearly 70, her shaky hands and weak breath made it hard. So I moved in with Leona, renting out our old house to focus on Dad.

I handled everything—pills, late-night ER trips, doctor visits, bills, cooking, cleaning. I spent sleepless nights by Dad’s bed, checking if he was breathing. Our home felt like a hospice.

Watching him fade from his long illness was like seeing a painting wash away in the rain. Caretaking was exhausting and lonely, but I wouldn’t trade it. Dad and I got so close.

Even in his final months, he was kind, grabbing my hand weakly to whisper, “Winona, you’re my rock. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

My younger sister, Priscilla, 26, lived in another state. She showed up for Christmas and Dad’s birthday—that was it.

When I called for help, she’d say, “Winona, I have my own life. I can’t drop everything.”

So I did. When Dad passed, his will wasn’t a shock—Priscilla made sure to attend that.

He left me most of his savings, not a fortune, but enough for Leona’s heart surgeries and maybe a house. Priscilla got Dad’s restored Mustang, some heirlooms, and jewelry, but no money. Eloise got the house and a small sum to live on.

In a shaky note, Dad said he wanted to thank me for my care and love. It felt like a final hug, not repayment. Priscilla was furious.

Months later, she got engaged to Silas, a guy who looked like a model but spent money like it burned him. Their planned wedding was over-the-top—a private resort, designer dress, fireworks, 200 guests, open bar, and a jazz band flown in. I wondered how Silas’s average paycheck or Priscilla’s nonexistent one would cover it.

Then she called one Sunday afternoon. I was back home with Leona, hesitant to answer, hoping she wanted to reconnect. Instead, she said sweetly, “Winona, Dad would’ve wanted you to use that inheritance to make my wedding special.”

I blinked.

“How much?”

“$30,000.”

Like she was asking for pocket change. I laughed before I could stop. “Priscilla, that’s for Leona’s surgery and our future.

Dad gave it to me for a reason. I’m not funding a party.”

Her sweet tone vanished. “So you’d rather hoard money than help your only sister have her dream wedding?

I was stunned. “Selfish? I cared for Dad daily while you posted bar selfies.