My Family says I have no conscience

My mum died on a Thursday morning.

By 11 a.m., somebody had already sent a message to our family WhatsApp group saying, “No matter what happens, nothing justifies abandoning your own mother.”

They were talking about me.

I'm 34, married, and the eldest of two girls. After my dad died, I became the person everybody depended on. I helped pay my younger sister Kiki's school fees, supported her when she had her baby, and helped whenever Mummy needed money.

I didn't mind helping. What hurt was that nobody ever asked if I could afford it. Somehow, being the responsible daughter meant my own problems could always wait.

Three years ago, my husband and I were about to buy our first house. We'd spent years saving, and we finally found a place we could afford.

Then Mummy called one Friday night. Kiki was in serious trouble and needed ₦4.8 million urgently. Someone was threatening to embarrass her if she didn't pay.

I asked what happened, but nobody gave me a straight answer. Mummy kept saying, “Please, she's your sister. We cannot leave her like this.”

My husband begged me not to transfer the money until we understood the situation. We had worked too hard for our savings.

But at 1 a.m., Mummy called again, crying. I couldn't sleep either.

I transferred the money the next morning.

We lost the house because we missed the payment deadline. Kiki promised to refund me, but she only paid back ₦200,000.

Months later, I discovered she'd travelled to Dubai with her boyfriend shortly after receiving the money. When I confronted her, she said the trip had already been booked.

“Must you make me feel bad about everything?” she asked.

That was when I stopped speaking to her.

Mummy didn't understand why. Whenever we spoke, she'd say, “You are the older one. You should know how to handle these things.”

I started visiting less and eventually stopped altogether. I was tired of being expected to sacrifice everything just because I was the one who could cope.

Last year, Mummy became seriously ill. I sent money for her treatment but didn't visit. I kept telling myself I'd go when I was ready.

One evening, she called me herself.

“Dara, are you still angry with me?”

I wanted to tell her everything. Instead, I said I was busy with work and would visit soon.

She died eleven days later.

I didn't get another chance.

At the funeral, Kiki barely spoke to me. One aunty pulled me aside and said, “Whatever your mother did, you should have put it aside. Now what exactly were you waiting for?”

I went home feeling like the worst daughter in the world.

Months later, Kiki sent me a voice note. Almost nine minutes long.

She started with, “There's something Mummy asked me not to tell you until after she died.”

Remember the ₦4.8 million?

The person Kiki owed wasn't some stranger. It was Mummy.

Before Dad died, he'd taken out a life insurance policy. Mummy had kept some of the payout aside and had quietly supported Kiki financially over the years. By then, Kiki owed her ₦4.8 million.

Mummy told Kiki to ask me for the money because she knew I'd help.

When I transferred it, Mummy used it to recover the money Kiki owed her.

I listened to that part three times.

My own mother had let me believe my sister was in danger, knowing I would sacrifice the house my husband and I had spent years saving for.

And she never told me.

Kiki said Mummy had planned to pay me back and explain everything. But she was afraid I'd stop helping the family completely.

Then she said something that broke me.

“Mummy knew you were angry. She told me she understood why you stopped coming. She just didn't know how to explain what happened without making you hate her.”

I remembered that phone call.

“Dara, are you still angry with me?”

She knew I was hurt. She knew why. Yet she'd let me believe she didn't understand.

I asked Kiki why she hadn't told me while Mummy was alive.

She admitted she was ashamed. Part of her had also been relieved that Mummy took responsibility for the debt because it meant she didn't have to face me.

My husband says the truth doesn't change what happened. Mummy took advantage of my trust, and I had every right to be hurt. My aunties say I should have visited regardless. Kiki says she's already lost her mother and doesn't want to lose her sister too.

But I keep thinking about those six minutes on the phone.

I could have told Mummy how I felt. I could have visited the next day.

But why was I always expected to understand everybody else, while nobody seemed to understand me?