After Mom passed, my brothers and I cleaned her old house. On top of the wardrobe, we found three worn blankets. My brothers called them junk — but I kept them.
Later, a small key slipped out from one blanket, along with a note in her handwriting:
“For my children. The key opens the shed. A mother’s warmth lives not in the wool, but in love.”
Inside the shed were old photos, our childhood drawings, and her medal from work — pieces of her life and love she’d quietly saved.
That day, I understood: her real legacy wasn’t in things, but in the warmth she left behind.
