My brother texted that Mom had fallen again, so I flew home and offered to move her in. At dinner, she smiled and said, “Thank God someone finally cares.” My brother, Marcus, dropped his fork. While unpacking her suitcase, I found her house keys, a jewelry box I hadn’t seen since Dad died, and an envelope marked: “DO NOT TRUST MARCUS.”
Inside was a note saying Marcus had been taking money from her—thousands—and that she believed he was gambling again. The next morning she admitted she had called Marcus when she fell and he hung up.
Weeks went by and Marcus never called—until he asked to meet. He claimed it wasn’t gambling but a bad real-estate deal and panicked instead of telling her. When I told Mom, she just said he’d always looked for shortcuts.
Later, his girlfriend called to say Marcus was doing poorly and had pawned Mom’s wedding ring. I bought it back because “no one pawns your memories.” Tasha then came to us, pregnant and seeking a better life. We welcomed her, but Marcus never showed when baby Layla was born.
Watching Layla play in the garden, Mom said the hardest part was letting go of who we thought someone would be—and the best part was seeing who actually shows up.