Every day, I took on Mom’s responsibilities. I bathed her, fed her, stayed up at night when she couldn’t sleep because of her illness, and I held her hand whenever she felt a pain she couldn’t express.
What about my brother Artyom? He only visited occasionally. He would bring flowers, say hello briefly, and then leave. He always said, “If anything happens, just call me.”
Until the day I dreaded came—Mom passed away.
Before I could fully recover from my grief, Artyom called me for a “family meeting.” But it wasn’t a conversation—it was a declaration.
“The house is mine now,” he said coldly, handing over some papers. “It says here that Mom changed her will last year. Everything is in my name.”
My world felt like it was turned upside down.
“What?” I almost whispered, trembling.
He sighed as if he were talking to a child. “Maybe Mom thought I could fix everything better.”
Better? I, who spent my life taking care of Mom, while she was barely there?
“You’re barely even here,” I whispered shakily.
He just shrugged. “It was her decision.”
I felt the world crumbling beneath my feet. I had no savings, because all my time and energy had gone to Mom. And now, in an instant, my own brother had sent me away.
A week after the funeral, I was standing on the porch, suitcase in hand, while Artyom changed the locks.
And that’s when I noticed—a loose brick by the staircase.
I knew Mom’s secret. She liked to hide small things—letters, memories—as a reminder that “There are hidden treasures, if you know how to look.”
That night, I left with a heavy heart. But the next day, I returned secretly. I slowly pulled the brick.
And there it was—an envelope, very old, and with a key.
Inside, Mom had a note:
“Son,
If you found this, it means you are the one in need the most. You always know how to look deeper than others. This key is not just for a door—it is for your path. Trust yourself.
My love is endless,
—Mom”
I hugged the letter with tears in my eyes. I didn’t know what the key was for, but I knew it had meaning.
A few days passed before I remembered—when we were kids, Mom had rented a storage unit while the house was being renovated. I thought, this might be it.
I went there, my hands shaking. When I inserted the key, the door opened.
Inside, it was all old stuff, boxes of decorations, old albums. But in one corner, there was a wooden box, shiny, and obviously well-kept.
When I opened it, I almost fell over in shock.
Three property titles. All paid for. All in Mom’s name.
Along with it, there was a small box wrapped in old gift wrapper. I opened it and saw another letter and a checkbook.
“Son,
These apartments are for you. I bought them a long time ago for your future. I hid them because I knew that greed would destroy a family. Use them wisely. Remember: real wealth is not money, but love and care.
I love you very much,
—Mom”
I couldn’t hold back my sobs. She had kept me until the end. She knew that Artyom would prioritize money—so she had placed the real wealth in safe hands.
And from there, my life changed. I didn’t use the apartments to get rich. I used them to provide a home—one for women who had escaped abuse, one for war veterans, and one for artists who had dreams but no place to start.
Gradually, word spread. Volunteers came, businessmen donated supplies, and neighbors helped.
Artyom heard about it. He came over furious.
“What are you doing? That should be mine!” he shouted.
I took a deep breath and looked at him. “No, Artyom. This isn’t ours—it’s Mom’s. And she gave it to me for a better cause. Look around—people getting back on their feet, children laughing again. This is more important than money.”
He turned away, speechless.
Months passed. The homes grew, many lives changed. One night, as I watched the children running around in the courtyard, someone came up to me—Artyom. He wasn’t angry anymore. His eyes were heavy, as if he were carrying a heavy burden of conscience.
He spoke quietly. “You know, I envy you. You’re always closer to Mama. She always trusts your heart. I… I always put myself first.”
I didn’t immediately answer.