The story started with a subtle scent of bleach lingering in the air, accompanied by a heavy feeling of resentment that weighed down on my chest.
As I stood in my mother’s kitchen, I found myself scrubbing the countertops, feeling the weight of another long day at work settle in. The sponge glided over the laminate, producing a rhythmic sound that was strangely comforting, but my mind was anything but at ease.

Life had become a complex juggling act for me: looking after my sick mother, being there for my young son, Milo, and handling a challenging job. I felt like I was constantly running on empty, and with each step I took, it became clearer just how much more lay ahead of me.

As if that wasn’t enough, my younger sister, Jane, somehow managed to make everything more complicated just by being herself. Jane and I were never really that close. As a child, she was the adventurous spirit—often sneaking out of the house during her teenage years, swiping cash from her mom’s purse, and playing hooky from school.

Still, in a strange sort of manner, she was the golden child. She excelled in her studies, achieving high scores and receiving scholarships that filled our mother with pride. Mom was always quick to let go of her mistakes. It appeared that Jane’s talents managed to eclipse her shortcomings.

Now that Mom is getting older and facing health challenges, I had hoped Jane would take on more responsibility. But she didn’t. I was the one managing Mom’s doctor appointments, bringing in a part-time caregiver named Nancy, and handling Mom’s finances.

Jane had been noticeably missing, only popping in for short visits that made me question her intentions. Did she come around just to make sure she stayed in the will, so Mom wouldn’t forget about her? I did my best to push away those cynical thoughts, but they just wouldn’t leave me alone.

I let out a deep sigh and switched off the faucet, the scent of bleach still hanging in the air. Just like that, I heard Mom’s faint voice coming from her bedroom, calling out for me. “Violet!”“She said sharply, a hint of anxiety slipping into her voice.” “Violet, come over here!””

I threw the dishcloth aside and rushed down the hallway. My mother’s room was softly illuminated, with the curtains pulled halfway closed. She stood by her dresser, her silver hair neatly brushed, clutching her jewelry box with trembling hands. Her eyes, which used to shine with brightness, were now dimmed by the weight of age and concern.

“My gold earrings are gone,” she said, her voice shaking. “I wanted to give you something special to hold onto… but when I opened this box, they were gone.”