“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.”

 

“The money isn’t much, but I want my children to live with righteousness and harmony. Don’t make my soul sad in the afterlife.”

My mother passed away one morning in late autumn, as gently as an oil lamp slowly going out. Throughout her life, she worked tirelessly and left no fortune, only a small, dilapidated house and a few old belongings.

The funeral was simple. My two older brothers and I—the eldest brother, the second brother, and I—sat down and talked about how to divide the few things that remained.

In the small room, apart from an old wooden wardrobe, there was nothing of value. Only three worn wool blankets that my mother had carefully folded. I stared silently, my heart heavy. For me, those blankets were my entire childhood. But my older brother mocked:

“Why keep these torn blankets? Better to throw them away.”

The second added:

“Exactly, they’re not worth a cent.” Whoever wants them, take them. I’m not going to carry trash.

Their words hurt me deeply. Had they forgotten those winter nights when the whole family slept together and Mom covered each of us with those 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 eldest waved his hand:

“Whatever you want, trash after all.”

The Secret Between the Blankets

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