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.
The second nodded, waving his hand dismissively.
“Who would bother with that junk? Whoever wants them can take them. I’m not hauling trash.”
Their words stung. They didn’t remember the love sewn into those stitches, the comfort those blankets gave us when the wind howled through the cracks in the walls.
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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