The Final Morning
My mother left this world one quiet morning in late autumn. There was no drama, no sudden alarm—just a peaceful fading, like the soft flicker of an oil lamp running out of fuel. Her passing was gentle, yet it left an ache so deep that silence itself seemed to mourn.
Her last words, spoken with a faint smile, still echo in my mind:
“The money isn’t much, but I want my children to live in righteousness and harmony. Don’t make my soul sad in the afterlife.”
At the time, I didn’t understand the full weight of her message. But life has a way of revealing wisdom slowly—and often painfully.
The Division of What Remained
After the funeral, my two older brothers and I gathered in the small house where we had grown up. The air was still heavy with the scent of incense and grief.
We sat in silence, surrounded by the few belongings that once filled our childhood home with warmth. There wasn’t much—an old wardrobe, a few faded photos, and three wool blankets neatly folded in a corner.
Those blankets had seen everything. The winters when we slept huddled together, the nights when our mother stayed up mending torn edges, the mornings when she covered us before leaving for the market.
I looked at them and felt my throat tighten. To me, they were sacred pieces of our past. But to my brothers, they were nothing more than clutter.
My eldest brother scoffed.
“Why keep these old things? They’re worthless.”
The second nodded, waving his hand dismissively.
“Who would bother with that junk? Whoever wants them can take them. I’m not hauling trash.”
I swallowed my anger and said quietly, “If you don’t want them, I’ll take them.”
My eldest shrugged. “Suit yourself. Trash is still trash.”
But as it turned out, those blankets were far more valuable than any of us could have imagined.
The Hidden Secret
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