What I Found Inside My Late Mother’s Blankets Changed How I See Love
The day my mother passed away, the house felt unbearably still — as if even the walls held their breath. Her scent lingered faintly in the air, a mix of lilacs and old linen. My two brothers and I spent the afternoon sorting through what was left of her life: faded photographs, chipped dishes, stacks of old letters written in her looping handwriting.
On top of the tall wooden closet, we discovered three identical blankets, neatly folded and tucked away. They looked worn, nothing special — just plain fabric softened by time. My brothers dismissed them as junk, “just old rags taking up space.” But I couldn’t bring myself to leave them behind. Something about the way they were folded — so precise, so deliberate — made me pause. Without saying anything, I took them home.
That evening, I decided to wash them. As I shook out the first blanket, I heard a faint clack on the floor. It was an envelope, wrapped carefully in cloth and yellowed by years. Inside were a few coins and a note written in my mother’s delicate hand:
“For my first son — you always worried too much about money. May this remind you that love is the true wealth.”
I froze, the edges of the paper trembling between my fingers. My heart pounded as I unfolded the second blanket.