My mother died one morning in late autumn, as slowly as an oil lamp goes out. She had worked tirelessly all her life and left no wealth, just a small, dilapidated house and a few old belongings.
The funeral was simple. My two older brothers—the eldest brother, the second brother, and I—sat down and discussed how to divide the few things that were left.
In the small room, apart from an old wooden wardrobe, there was nothing of value. Only three worn woolen blankets that my mother had carefully folded. I stared silently, my heart heavy. To me, those blankets were my entire childhood. But my older brother sneered:
—Why keep these torn blankets? It would be better to throw them away.
The second added:
“Exactly, they’re not worth a cent. Whoever wants them can have them. I won’t bring trash.”
I was deeply hurt by what he said. Had they forgotten those winter nights when the whole family slept together and Mom covered each of us with blankets while she shivered in her old, patched coat? I pressed my lips together and said,
“If you don’t want them, I’ll take them.”
The old man waved his hand.
“Whatever you want, trash after all.”
The secret between the blankets
The next day, I took the three blankets back to my small apartment. I planned to wash them and keep them as souvenirs. As I shook one of them vigorously, I heard a dry sound, as if something hard had fallen to the floor. I bent down, my heart pounding. Inside the torn lining, a small, hand-sewn brown cloth bag appeared.
With trembling hands, I opened it: inside were some old savings books and a few ounces of gold, carefully wrapped. The total value exceeded a hundred thousand dollars. I gasped.
Mom, who had lived her entire life frugally, without luxury, had quietly saved every cent, hiding her fortune in old blankets.
I cried uncontrollably. All the images of the past came flooding back: the days when she sold vegetables at the market to earn a few coins, the times she dug into her purse to give me my school money. I thought she was always gone… but in reality, she had saved everything for us.
When I looked at the two other blankets, I saw two more bags. A total of almost three hundred thousand dollars.
The conflict
It didn’t take long for the news to spread. My older and younger siblings came to my house one night, their faces hardened.
“Are you planning to hide everything?” shouted the eldest. “The money is Mom’s inheritance. Why are you hiding it?”
“I didn’t hide it,” I replied. “I was planning to tell you about it on the anniversary of his death. But remember: you despised the blankets and wanted to throw them away. If I hadn’t brought them, the money would have been gone.”
The second one whispered angrily,
“Even so, it belongs to Mom. It was divided between the three of us. Don’t dream of keeping it all for yourself.”
I remained silent. I knew the money had to be divided, but I also remembered how they treated Mom. They didn’t give her anything, while I, although poor, sent her something every month. When he was sick, I took care of him alone; they always had excuses. And now…
The arguments lasted for days. The eldest even threatened to sue me.
The last letter
As I checked the bags again, I found a small piece of paper hidden at the bottom. It was Mom’s shaky handwriting:
“These three blankets are for my three children.
Anyone who still loves me and remembers my sacrifice will recognize this.
Money is not much, but I want them to live righteously and well.
Don’t make my soul sad in the afterlife.”
I hugged the paper, crying uncontrollably. Mom had planned everything. That was her way of testing us.
I called my siblings, and when they arrived, I placed the note in front of them. They remained silent, their eyes lowered. A deep silence filled the room, broken only by sobs.
My decision
I told them calmly,
“Mom left this for the three of us. I won’t keep anything for myself. I suggest we divide it equally.”
The eldest lowered her head, her voice hoarse:
“I… was wrong. All I was thinking about was the money and I forgot Mom’s words.”
The second, with teary eyes, added:
“She suffered so much… and we never got to thank her.”
We remained silent for a long time. Finally, we agreed to divide the money into three equal parts. We each took one, as a reminder to our mother.
The fate of each one
Hoàng, the eldest brother: He used to be stingy, but after this blow, he completely changed. He used his share of the money to educate his children and visited Mother’s grave every month, as if seeking redemption.
Hậu, the second: Always impetuous, but Mother’s letter changed him. He donated part of the money to the poor, “to do her honors,” he said.
Me: I saved my share without spending it. I created a small scholarship in my hometown, in the name of my mother, the woman who silently sacrificed herself throughout her life.
Epilogue
The three old blankets, which seemed like useless rags, hid not only a fortune, but an eternal lesson.
In her last act, Mom taught us to fight greed and value family ties.
Now, when winter comes, I take out one of those blankets and cover my son.
I want him to learn that the true value of life is not in inherited money, but in love, kindness, and unity.
Because only when we know how to truly love each other, we are worthy of being called our mother’s children.