Two weeks after losing our mother to cancer, I still expected to hear her voice in every room. I was grieving — not just for her, but for what happened after she passed. My name is Emily, and I was adopted when I was five. Mom always said, “Blood doesn’t make a family. Love does.” And she lived that every day. She raised me, cared for me, and made me feel chosen and loved. When she got sick, I dropped everything to care for her. I stayed by her side through chemo, pain, and her final days in hospice. My brother Mark?
He visited twice. He lived only a few hours away but chose not to come. At the funeral, I planned to give the eulogy — Mom and I had even written it together during one of her lucid moments. But just before the service, Mark pulled me aside and said, “You should sit this one out. You’re adopted. Let real family speak.” His words shattered me. I stayed,