When I think back on those long nights at the hospital, I can still smell the disinfectant and hear the steady beep of the monitor beside my mother’s bed. I barely slept, afraid that if I closed my eyes, she’d slip away without me knowing. My brother never showed up—not once. He always had an excuse: work, travel, being “too emotional” to see her that way. I tried not to resent him, telling myself that everyone deals with illness differently.

But after she passed, everything changed. When I went to the lawyer’s office to hear the reading of her will, I expected things to be fair—or at least compassionate. Instead, I felt like the ground had been pulled out from under me. The house, the one I had grown up in and taken care of with her, was left entirely to my brother. My name wasn’t even mentioned in that part of the will.

When I confronted him, hoping it was all a misunderstanding, he smirked and said coldly, “If you want to stay there, you’ll have to pay me rent.” I could hardly breathe. Rent? For my own home? For the house where I spent sleepless nights taking care of our mother?

I felt betrayed—by him, and in some ways, by her too. Why would she do that? Had she believed his lies, or thought I’d be okay on my own? I wanted to scream, but part of me also wondered if I was being unfair. Maybe she had her reasons. Maybe he needed it more.
Still, it hurts deeply. I have a small inheritance from her—some savings, not enough for a new house in today’s market. I don’t know if I should fight this legally or just walk away and start over. I hate the thought of turning family into enemies, but maybe justice matters more than peace.

I’m torn between doing what feels right and keeping what’s left of our family intact. What would you do in my place?