The money isn’t much, but I want my children to live with integrity and harmony. Don’t let my soul be sorrowful in the afterlife.
“The money is not much, but I want my children to live with righteousness and harmony. Do not let my soul in the afterlife be saddened.”My mother passed away on a quiet late–autumn morning, as gently as an oil lamp burning out.
All her life she worked without rest, and left behind no wealth—only a small, aging nipa house and a few old belongings.
The funeral was simple.
My two older brothers and I—the panganay, the second, and me—sat together afterward to discuss how to divide what little remained.
In her tiny room, aside from an old wooden aparador, there was nothing valuable.
Only three worn wool blankets that she had folded with care.
I stared at them silently, my chest tightening.
To me, those blankets were my entire childhood.
But my eldest brother scoffed:
“What are we keeping these torn blankets for? Better to throw them away.”
The second added:
“Exactly. They’re worth nothing. Whoever wants them can take them; I’m not carrying trash.”
His words cut deep.
Had they already forgotten those cold December nights when the whole family slept side by side, and Mama would cover each of us with those same blankets while she shivered in her patched-up jacket?
I bit my lip and said:
“If you don’t want them, I’ll take them.”
The eldest waved a dismissive hand.
“Whatever. Trash is trash.”
The Secret in the Blankets
The next day, I brought the three blankets to my small apartment in Quezon City.
I planned to wash them and keep them as remembrance.
When I shook one of them hard, I heard a dull sound—clack!—as if something solid had fallen inside the cloth.
I knelt down, heart racing.
From inside the torn lining, a small brown hand-sewn pouch slid out.
With trembling hands, I opened it.
Inside were several old bank passbooks, and a few small gold bars, wrapped carefully in cloth.
The total amount exceeded five million pesos.
My breath caught.
Mama, who had lived her entire life in frugality—selling vegetables in the palengke, running a tiny sari-sari store, patching old clothes—had saved every centavo silently, hiding her fortune inside those old blankets.
I cried uncontrollably.
Memories flooded back: her counting coins to give us baon for school, the nights she skipped dinner so we could eat, the times she refused to buy new slippers for herself but bought notebooks for us instead.
I had always thought she had nothing…
But in truth, she had been saving everything for us.
When I checked the other two blankets, I found two more pouches.
In total—nearly fifteen million pesos.
The Conflict
The news spread quickly.
My eldest and second brother came to my apartment one night, faces hard.
“Are you planning to keep everything?” the eldest shouted.
“That money is Mama’s inheritance. Why did you hide it?”
“I didn’t hide it,” I replied.
“I was planning to tell you on her death anniversary. But remember—you two rejected the blankets and wanted to throw them away. If I hadn’t taken them, the money would be gone.”
The second brother muttered angrily:
“Doesn’t matter. It’s Mama’s property. It should be divided among the three of us.”
I stayed silent.
I knew the inheritance should be shared…
But I also remembered how little they cared for Mama.
They never helped her financially, while I—though struggling—sent her money every month.
When she got sick, I took care of her alone.
They always had excuses: work, time, distance.
And now…
Arguments dragged on for days.
The eldest even threatened to take me to court.
The Final Letter
While checking the pouches again, I found a small folded paper hidden at the bottom.
It was Mama’s shaky handwriting.
“These three blankets are for my three children.
Whoever still loves me and remembers my sacrifices will understand.
The money is not much, but I want you to live with righteousness and harmony.
Do not let my soul in the afterlife be saddened.”
I held the paper to my chest and wept.
Mama had planned everything.
It was her way of testing our hearts.
I called my brothers.
When they arrived, I placed the letter in front of them.
They fell silent, eyes lowered.
Only the sound of muffled sobbing broke the heavy air.
My Decision
I said calmly:
“Mama left this for the three of us. I won’t keep anything for myself.
I propose we divide it equally.
But please, remember—money matters, yes…
But what she wanted most was for us to live in peace.”
The eldest lowered his head, voice hoarse:
“I… was wrong. I only thought about the money and forgot Mama’s words.”
The second, eyes wet, said softly:
“She suffered so much… and we didn’t even thank her properly.”
We stayed quiet for a long time.
Finally, we agreed to divide the money into three equal parts.
Each of us took our share—more as a remembrance of Mama than as wealth.
What Became of Us
Kuya Andres, the eldest:
He used to be stingy, but the incident changed him.
He used his share to pay for his children’s education, and he now visits Mama’s grave every month, as if seeking redemption.
Kuya Ben, the second:
Always impulsive, but Mama’s letter humbled him.
He donated part of his share to the church charity—“for Mama’s soul,” he said.
Me:
I kept my portion untouched.
I set up a small scholarship fund in our hometown, under Mama’s name—
the woman who sacrificed everything in silence.
Epilogue
The three old blankets—once dismissed as worthless scraps—held not only a hidden fortune, but an eternal lesson.
Mama taught us, with her final act, to resist greed
and cherish family.
Now, when the cool season comes, I take out one of those blankets and wrap my son in it.
I want him to learn that the true value of life is not measured by inherited money,
but by love, kindness, and unity.
Because only when we learn to love each other sincerely, are we worthy of being called our mother’s children.