While sorting through the gold and savings books again, I found something tucked deep in one of the bags—a small folded piece of paper.
It was written in my mother’s shaky handwriting:
My vision blurred with tears. It wasn’t just an inheritance—it was a test.
I called my brothers that night and handed them the note. Neither spoke at first. My eldest’s shoulders slumped. The second covered his face with his hands. The room filled with quiet sobs—the kind that come from guilt rather than grief.
A Mother’s Final Lesson
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