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.
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.”
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.
