I Was Undergoing Chemotherapy, but My Mom Used Me as a Servant Since I Lived in Her House – Until My Friend Stepped In

I assumed my mother would support me during my cancer treatment when I had to return to her home. Rather, she sold my car without asking, stole my food benefits, and gave me a daily to-do list. Until my friend saw what was going on and refused to allow it to continue, I was too unwell to fight back.

For the past eight months, I, a 24-year-old, have been fighting stomach cancer. The doctor who gave the diagnosis on a random Tuesday afternoon appeared nearly as astonished as I did.

I used to be a young, healthy woman with a respectable career and an apartment of my own. Then I found myself looking at test results that completely upended my existence.

I had been living alone, far from my mother, for years. The relationship between us was never positive. I saved every dime I could to get out of debt by working part-time jobs after school even as a teenager.

I was worn down by the icy tone in her voice and the way she always treated me like a bother, as if I were something she had to put up with rather than love. It felt liberating to move into a small studio apartment with a leaking faucet on my eighteenth birthday.

However, cancer doesn’t give a damn about your ambitions or level of independence.

Immediately, the medical expenditures began to mount. The chemotherapy was somewhat, but not quite fully, paid by my health insurance. I had to manage special diets, meds, co-pays, and transportation to three weekly appointments.

I made an effort to continue working, but I was exhausted. On certain days, I was unable to leave my bed. On other days, I managed to go to work, only to throw up in the restroom during my lunch hour.

After a while, I was forced to give up. The rent was unaffordable without my salary. In a matter of weeks, my savings vanished. I sold everything I could get rid of, including my TV and furniture.

However, it was insufficient.

I moved back into my mother’s house after packing what little I had left into boxes since I had nowhere else to go. Despite my fear and desperation, I harbored a tiny hope that perhaps this catastrophe might strengthen our bond. Perhaps addressing my condition together would mend some of our past animosities.

I was completely mistaken.

It was evident from the first week that she didn’t consider me to be her daughter. I was cheap labor. I wasn’t asked to assist her around the house. Rather, she insisted on it.

As if I were her employee, I would find a handwritten list of tasks arranged by the hour attached to the refrigerator every morning.

“9:00 a.m. – sweep the kitchen and mop the floors.”

“10:30 – scrub both bathrooms, don’t forget the grout.”

“12:00 – make lunch for me and my book club friends.”

“1:30 – fold all the laundry and put it away.”

“3:00 – start repainting the backyard fence.”

“5:00 – vacuum the entire living ro

om and dust the shelves.”

The lists continued in this manner until nightfall, representing a whole day’s worth of work in black ink. The fact that I was ill was irrelevant. The fact that I had appointments for treatment didn’t matter. She thought that since I was at home all day, I ought to be at work.

She always waved me away with the same contemptuous response when I objected.

It would be “you’re home all day anyway,” she would say. “Are you engaged in anything else? Feeling sorry for yourself while sitting around?

She demanded that every single duty be finished, even on the days when chemotherapy left me so weak I could hardly stand. She would call me lazy if I tried to lie down or skipped something because the nausea was so bad.

She would remark, “Other people work through worse,” “You’re not special.”

Then things became worse. I was eligible for SNAP assistance since I was diagnosed with cancer and was unable to work. During treatment, I was in dire need of bland, easily digestible foods, which the EBT card was meant to assist me pay for.

My mother, however, had other ideas.

She held out her hand to me and said, “You’re too weak to do the shopping yourself,” “I’ll handle the card for you if you give me the PIN. That way, it’s simpler.”

I was first appreciative when I agreed. It was a comfort to have one less thing to think about because I was so exhausted. However, I quickly realized what was actually going on.

I didn’t need the food that showed up in the pantry. They were filled with items that I was unable to consume, such as frozen pizzas, candy bars, bags of chips, and bottles of Coke. In the meantime, I couldn’t find the simple rice, crackers, or broths that I really required.

She shrugged when I questioned her about it. “I purchased what was discounted. Avoid being ungrateful.

When I left the house for therapy, the abuse continued. My phone was always buzzing with her texts, even when I was sitting in the clinic with an IV for chemotherapy.

“Stop at the store on your way home and pick up milk, bread, and those cookies I like.”

“When you return, remember to vacuum. There is chaos in the living room.

“My car has to be washed today. It’s dirty.

Like weights bearing down on my chest, the texts continued to pile up, one after the other. As I read them, my hands would shake, a horrible feeling unrelated to cancer mingled with the nausea from the chemotherapy.

I made an effort to push back. I’m currently receiving chemotherapy, Mom. I feel terrible. After that, I can hardly walk to the car.”

She consistently responded in a disdainful and icy manner. “Remember the woman who lived next door, Mrs. Patterson? Even though she had cancer, she continued to take care of her family, clean her home, and work full-time. You’re robust and youthful. You ought to be capable of doing the same. Quit offering excuses.

It felt like a punch to the stomach to read those words as poison seeped into my veins and my body began to disintegrate from the inside out. I received lectures in place of assistance. I received parallels to a neighbor I hardly remembered in place of empathy.

She didn’t think my condition was a valid reason for anything.

Then the day arrived when I discovered my automobile was gone.

I had just returned home from a very unpleasant chemotherapy treatment. My head was throbbing, my entire body hurt, and all I wanted to do was fall into bed. However, there was nobody on the driveway as I peered out the window.

I initially believed that I might have parked on the street and forgotten. My memory had become hazy, and the effects of the chemotherapy were genuine. However, the street was also deserted. Panic rising in my chest, I contacted my mother.

“Mom, where’s my car?” I inquired. “Did it get towed?”

“Oh, that,” she remarked nonchalantly, as if we were talking about the weather. “I sold it last week.”

“You what?”

“Your car was sold by me. I assumed you wouldn’t need the automobile anyhow, so I faked your signature. I can drive you to your doctor’s visits, which are the only times you leave the house. The funds were used for bills and rent. You know, it’s not free to live here.

I was having trouble breathing. The only thing that showed I still had some control over my life and my last remaining shred of freedom was that automobile. I was able to avoid begging for rides by using it to get to my therapies. If things became too much for me, it was my way out.

“That was my automobile, Mom. You must ask me before selling my property.

“You live under my roof, and it was parked in my driveway. In addition, I’ve already used up the most of the funds. Are you interested in staying here? Be thankful that I’m taking care of everything and stop behaving like a spoiled child.”

Her remarks helped me see my value. Nothing was truly mine in her mind. Not my time, not my car, not my benefits, nor even my body as it struggled to stay alive. She was in charge of all I owned.

Around that time, I was driven home from another appointment by my friend Mara.

After glancing at me, she inquired as to what was wrong.

I sobbed and told her everything at that moment.

I told her about the incessant text messages requesting that I run errands while hooked up to an IV, the never-ending duties despite the chemotherapy, and the perks of stolen food. And lastly, the vehicle that she had sold without my consent.

In a matter of seconds, Mara’s face was red with rage.

Her words, “Lena, this isn’t just unfair,” “This is abuse. You’re practically battling for your life, and she’s treating you like a servant. You must leave this place.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“You do, really. I’m taking you home with me. Now. We’re going to gather your belongings and leave you here.”

And that’s precisely what took place.

That first night in her apartment, Mara sat with me, poured me tea I could actually drink, and listened to me cry out months of worry and tiredness.

I felt secure for the first time since receiving my diagnosis. Without my phone beeping with requests, I could sleep. I didn’t have to worry about what list would be there when I woke up.

Mara, however, wasn’t content to merely provide me with a place to stay. She was upset.

“Lena, what she did wasn’t merely cruel. The following day, Mara declared, “It was illegal.” “She sold your vehicle without your consent. Your food benefits, which were intended to help you endure treatment, were stolen by her. We are reporting this financial exploitation.

At first, I was afraid.

You know, my mother had always told me that I was the issue and that no one would ever support me. She gave me the impression that I should be appreciative of the little attention she gave me.

However, Mara assisted me in submitting reports to social services and the police. She held my hand during every interview, sat with me during every phone call, and wouldn’t let me downplay what had transpired.

I wasn’t fired by the cop who took my statement.

“This is clear financial exploitation of a vulnerable adult,” he stated. “We’re going to investigate this fully.”

The inquiry proceeded swiftly. The abuse of my SNAP payments was well-documented and indisputable, and my mother was unable to demonstrate that she had any legal authority to sell my automobile.

Social services took away her access to my account and that she pay back the money she had taken within two weeks. They also cautioned her that serious fines and criminal charges might follow any more infractions.

Then Mara’s apartment door was knocked on.

Even before Mara opened it, I knew it was Mom. My entire body stiffened, but I wasn’t by myself this time.

Mom crossed her arms as she stood in the hallway. She didn’t appear remorseful or sorry. She appeared enraged at having been discovered.

Her eyes were fixed on me as she growled, “What did you do?” “Are you the one doing this? They claim that I sold the automobile illegally, that I owe money back, and that I am no longer eligible for benefits. Are you cognizant of what you have done to me?

She took a step closer and pointed a weapon-like finger at me. “You must return home immediately and make this right. This is how you pay me back for everything I’ve done for you? You’re self-centered. You lack gratitude. I provided you with food and shelter, and this is the gratitude I receive? You have destroyed everything.

Her remarks were intended to hurt, to control, to cause me to fall apart as I always have.

However, I finally heard them for what they truly were as I stood at Mara’s doorway. Her statements were an angry outburst at losing control over me and a desperate attempt to keep control.

I inhaled and regained my voice. “No. I’m not returning. I am not your property. And you’ll have to deal with the fallout from your actions.”

She opened her eyes in disbelief that I had the audacity to disobey her. She began yelling once more, slurs, and threats that I would come to regret this decision. Mara, however, moved in between us and quietly closed the door.

After a few minutes, the yelling from the corridor subsided as she eventually walked out.

I came to the realization for the first time in my life that cancer was not the reason mom had lost me. She chose exploitation over love and control over empathy, which is why she lost me.

And I haven’t looked back since that night.

My mother was formally removed as my agent by social services, and I was given complete responsibility over my benefits again. At least the car issue is being looked into as theft, even though legal actions are still ongoing. She was compelled to pay back the SNAP funds she had misappropriated, and the administration warned that any more infractions would have dire repercussions.

She still makes occasional attempts to call. The voicemails can be caustic on some days or remorseful on others. However, I no longer pay attention.

I’m not controlled by her voice.

To be really honest, cancer has robbed me of my power, vitality, hair, and months of my life. However, I’m not going to allow her to steal my honor either.

I’m at last beginning to recover now that I live with Mara. Emotionally as well as physically. The part of me that believed that because it came from family, I had to put up with brutality is gradually realizing that I always deserved better.

Long before the agencies intervened, my mother lost me. The instant she saw me as a servant rather than her ailing daughter, she lost me. That will never be altered by a fine or penalty.