Before my father passed, he sent my stepmother, Auntie Cham, out of the house. My siblings and I assumed he feared she might claim part of the inheritance. But what I later discovered was far beyond anything we could have imagined.
I am the youngest child in the family, with two older brothers. My mother died when I was just over a year old, before I even understood what the word “mother” meant. Three years later, my father remarried.
Auntie Cham was a small, quiet woman. From the day she moved in, she cared for me as if I were her own. She spoon-fed me porridge when I was four, walked me to school, waited outside the classroom doors, and celebrated every small achievement like I was her child. In my heart, she was a “mother.” Only my brothers refused to see it that way.
When she first moved in, my brothers were 10 and 13. They resented her presence, whispering behind her back, warning me not to trust her kindness. “She only does this to please Dad,” they’d say. I sometimes listened to them and even acted out, cutting her clothes or arguing. But seeing her cry alone, I always felt guilty.
As I grew older, I realized Auntie Cham, though not my biological mother, loved me more genuinely than anyone else in the family. I ignored my brothers’ warnings and called her “Mama Cham,” growing closer to her every day.
I remember overhearing my father once comforting her gently, telling her to be patient with my brothers—they had lost their mother too young and carried difficult temperaments. She never scolded them, never retaliated, even when they were cruel. Perhaps that was why they treated her even worse.
Years passed. My brothers married and moved out, leaving only Father, Auntie Cham, and me at home.
Earlier this year, Father became gravely ill. He seemed irritable at times and would drive Auntie Cham out of the house in front of guests. She never argued. She just waited, silently enduring, hoping he would calm down.
Last month, Father called a family meeting. I arrived late from work, sensing tension immediately. Auntie Cham was hurriedly packing. Father’s voice was cold:
“From today on, we have nothing to do with each other. Leave my sight. Don’t bother me again.”
I panicked, trying to ask why, but he refused to explain. Auntie Cham remained calm, offering me only a sad smile: “Don’t say anything, just go.” The image of her suitcase, carried out the door, is one I will never forget.
Two weeks later, Father passed away. Auntie Cham quietly managed the funeral, then left once again. My brothers assumed Father had pushed her away out of fear she would claim our inheritance.
After the 49th-day memorial, my siblings gathered to divide Father’s estate: a three-story house, a piece of land, farmland, and other assets. Everything seemed settled—until I met one of Father’s old friends.
He revealed that Father had secretly purchased a house months earlier and signed it entirely over to Auntie Cham—just one month before sending her away.
I was stunned. Father hadn’t feared Auntie Cham would fight us over property. He had feared for her safety, knowing that my brothers would never have let her live in peace otherwise.
I visited her new home. It was small, but bright and welcoming, with a little sunlit garden. When she opened the door, her warm smile greeted me—the same gentle woman I had always known.
Only then did I understand. My father’s final act of love was not about wealth or inheritance—it was about protecting the woman who had silently cared for our family all those years.