For Eight Years, the Daughter-in-Law Took Care of Her Mother-in-Law — Yet No One Ever Cared for Her. When the Old Woman Passed Away, Everything Was Left to Her Daughters… Or So It Seemed.
I got married at the age of twenty-five.
My husband was the youngest son in the family.
In our household, there was only one elderly person left—his mother.
After the wedding, her health gradually declined. No one else was willing or able to take care of her.
I was the only one by her side.
For eight long years, I cared for her every day.
I spoon-fed her porridge.
I changed her diapers in the middle of the night.
I stayed awake when she was in pain and comforted her when she was afraid.
At first, I told myself I was doing it out of filial duty.
Out of responsibility.
But deep in my heart, I also secretly believed something else—
That she loved me.
That one day, even a small part of what she had would be left for my husband and me.
Then she passed away.
At the funeral, the two eldest daughters—who had not been seen in years—suddenly appeared. They cried loudly. One held her portrait, while the other sat nearby telling stories about their mother, as if they had never been absent from her life.
I remained silent.
On the day the will was read, the house was full of relatives. The lawyer announced:
“The old lady left all her land, her house, and her savings to be divided equally between her two biological daughters.
The youngest daughter-in-law’s name does not appear in any account.”
My body stiffened.
Not because of greed.
But because my chest felt tight, as if I couldn’t breathe.
For eight years, I was the only one who stayed by her side.
Those two daughters hadn’t even come home once in some years.
Why would she…?
My husband was silent as well.
He didn’t blame me. He simply looked at me and gently held my hand.
“Come,” he said softly.
“Live for yourself. Don’t take it to heart.”
Then came the forty-ninth day after her passing.
While I was cleaning her bed and lifting the worn-out mat, I noticed something bulging underneath.
Curious, I pulled it out.
It was a carefully sealed envelope—with my name written on it.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a savings book in my name.
The amount was nearly two billion VND.
Attached was a small piece of paper, written in shaky, elderly handwriting:
“This is what I saved for my youngest daughter-in-law.
You are not related to me by blood, but you loved me the most in this family.
The two of them are my children, but for years they never asked whether I was alive or dead.
Keep this and live in peace. Don’t blame me.
I only wanted your name to stay out of the division.
I love you as my own daughter.”
I broke down and cried.
Not because of the money.
But because all this time, I had secretly blamed her in my heart.
It turned out she was never ungrateful.
She simply loved me in a quiet, unobtrusive way.
Now, as I hold the savings book in my hands, it feels heavier than anything I have ever held in my life.
Mom…
I was wrong.