“Money is not much, but I want my children to live in righteousness and harmony. Don’t make my soul sad in the hereafter.”

My mother died one late autumn morning, gently, like an oil lamp slowly fading.

All her life she had worked tirelessly. She left behind neither wealth nor jewels—only a small, dilapidated house and a few old, time-worn objects.

The funeral was simple.
There were three of us: my eldest brother, my second brother, and I. We sat together to discuss the division of his meager possessions.

In the small room, there was nothing of value—except for an old wooden wardrobe and three threadbare wool blankets, neatly folded. I looked at them in silence, my heart sinking.
For me, these blankets represented my entire childhood.

But my older brother sneered,
“Why keep these old things? Might as well throw them away.”

The second added:
“Exactly, they’re not worth a penny. If anyone wants them, let them take them! I don’t carry garbage.”

Their words pierced me.
Had they forgotten those winter nights when we all slept together, and Mother covered us one by one, shivering herself in her old patched coat?

I pursed my lips and said calmly,
“If you don’t want them, I’ll take them.”

My older brother shrugged.
“Do as you wish, it’s junk after all.”

The secret of the covers

The next day, I brought the three blankets back to my small apartment.
I planned to wash them and keep them as souvenirs.

But as I shook one of them, I heard a sharp sound—clack!—as if something hard had just fallen.
I bent down, intrigued.
Hidden in the torn lining was a small, hand-sewn brown canvas bag.

My hands were shaking when I opened it: inside were several old savings books and a few carefully wrapped ounces of gold.
In all, more than one hundred thousand dollars.

I stood petrified.
Mother, who had always lived in poverty, never indulging in luxuries, had patiently saved every penny… hiding her fortune in those old blankets.

Tears flooded my eyes.
I relived all those memories: the days she sold vegetables at the market, the evenings she rummaged through her purse to give me some pocket money.
I thought she had nothing—but in truth, she had saved everything for us.

Inspecting the other two blankets, I discovered two more bags.
In total, nearly three hundred thousand dollars.

The conflict

The news spread quickly.
One evening, my two brothers arrived at my house, their faces closed.

“Are you planning on keeping it all for yourself?” shouted the eldest. “It’s Mom’s inheritance! Why are you hiding it?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” I replied. “I was planning to tell everything on the anniversary of his death. But remember: you despised those blankets, you wanted to throw them away. If I hadn’t taken them, that money would have disappeared.”

The second one grumbled,
“It doesn’t matter! It’s Mom’s, so it’s up to the three of us. Don’t expect to keep him alone.”

I kept quiet.
I knew they were right in principle, but I also remembered everything they hadn’t done.
When Mom was sick, I had taken care of her alone.
They always had an excuse. And now they were fighting over her money…

The arguments lasted for several days.
My older brother even went so far as to threaten to sue me.

The last letter

As I rummaged through the bags again, I came across a small piece of paper.
It was Mom’s shaky handwriting.

“These three blankets are for my three children.
Whoever still loves me and remembers my sacrifices will understand.
Money is not much, but I want them to live in righteousness and harmony.
Do not make my soul sad in the afterlife.”

I clutched the letter to me, sobbing.
Mom had planned everything.
This was her way of testing us.

I called my brothers.
When they arrived, I placed the letter on the table.
A heavy silence fell.
Only our sobs disturbed the room.

My decision

I calmly told them,
“Mom left this for the three of us. I won’t keep anything for myself. I suggest we split it equally.
But remember: money matters, yes, but what she wanted most was peace between us.”

My older brother lowered his head.
“I was wrong. I only thought about money… and I forgot his words.”

The second, his eyes moist, added:
“She suffered so much… and we didn’t even thank her.”

We remained silent for a long time.
Then we decided to divide the money into three equal parts.
Each took his own—not as a prize, but as a souvenir of our mother.

The destiny of each one

My older brother—once a miser—changed completely.
He used his share to finance his children’s studies and visited his mother’s grave every month, as if to ask for forgiveness.

The second—always impulsive—was transformed by the letter.
He donated part of his share to the poor, “for the repose of his soul,” he said.

I invested my share without touching it.
I created a small scholarship in our hometown, in the name of my mother, this woman who had sacrificed herself in silence all her life.

Epilogue

These three old blankets, which my brothers considered worthless, hid not only a fortune…
but above all an eternal lesson.

With her last gesture, Mother taught us to resist greed and to cherish blood ties.

Today, when winter returns, I take out one of those blankets and wrap my son in it.
I want him to understand that the true richness of life is not measured in inherited money,
but in love, kindness, and unity.

For it is only by loving each other sincerely
that we are worthy to call ourselves
our mother’s children.