I took care of my mother by washing her, feeding her, staying up all night to watch over her, and holding her hand when she was in too much pain.
What about my brother Artyom? He came when it was good for him. Visits that don’t take long. A few floral arrangements here and there. “Please tell me if something happens.”
And then, all of a sudden, she was gone.
Artyom called me to a “family meeting” before I had even started to cry. But that wasn’t a meeting; it was a declaration.
He said coldly, “The house is mine now,” and pushed documents over the table. “Mom put it in my name,” he said.
I blinked.
“What?”
He breathed out like he was talking to a child.
“She changed the will last year.” She probably thought I could do a better job.
Do you want to take better care of it?
I stayed here every day. It got cleansed. Kept her alive.
“You were hardly there,” I said, shivering.
He shrugged.
“Well… She made the choice.
It seemed like the floor was about to break. Because I took care of Mom, I didn’t have any money saved up. And now, with just a few strokes of a pen, my own brother was kicking me out.
A week later, I stood on the porch with my bag at my feet and watched him put new locks on the doors.
I saw it then: a brick that was loose close to the steps.
Mom kept some things secret. Not big, but vital.
Artyom smiled one more time and shut the door.
I smiled too.
I believed he had overlooked something.
I cried into a motel pillow that night until my eyes were so puffy that I couldn’t open them. But I knew by morning
I needed to look more closely. That brick wasn’t just sitting there. When we were kids, Mom encouraged us to pay attention to the small things. Sometimes she would put notes or small gifts in unusual places. She was telling him to “Pay attention; life hides treasures.”
The next day, I came back when Artyom had a customer. I carefully took the brick out.
It had a yellowed, sealed package under it. I shook my fingers as I ripped it open.
Inside was a key and a folded note.
It said:
*To my beloved,
If you found it, you probably needed it the most. You’ve always been able to see things that other people can’t. This key not only opens a door, but it also opens a way. Have believe in yourself.
“Mom, I love you.”
I hung on to the key, not sure but hopeful. What was it for? This house is not the one. I put them in my pocket and walked back to the motel, ready to find out what was going on.
It took me a few days to remember the truth. Mom rented a storage unit years ago when the house was being fixed up. It still had some missing heirlooms in it. Can it be done?
I drove there with my heart beating. The key fit well. When the door opened, it made a creaking sound. Sunlight came through the cracks, and dust danced around like tiny ghosts.
At first, I observed a lot of rubbish, like old couches, boxes with “Christmas lights” scrawled on them, and LPs. There was a shiny chest in the corner.
I got down on my knees and opened it.
There was a little gift box covered in ancient, faded floral paper and papers tied together with ribbon. First, I looked at the documents, and then I stopped.
Deeds for land.
There are three flats in the center of the city, not just one. They have all been paid for.
What I witnessed was unbelievable. Hey, Mom? She had kept this a secret?
I took the paper off the box. Inside was a checkbook and another letter. The letter said:
*My dear,
You own these flats. I bought them a long time ago to make sure you would have a good future. I hid them because greed drives families apart. Make good use of them. Don’t forget that love and compassion are what make you truly wealthy.
“Mom, I’ll always be yours.”
Holding the letter to my chest made me cry. She knew it was going to happen. She knew Artyom needed money, so she kept me safe.
Then I hired a lawyer, put the deeds in my name, and started making plans. I called charities and concluded that these homes should be somewhere where people can live.
One became a safe place for women who had been hurt. Another one was for people who had fought in wars. The third one turned into art studios for folks who wished to be artists.
People spread the word immediately. People that wished to help showed up. Companies handed out furniture. People in the area offered their time and skills for free.
Artyom learned.
He came in like a storm, full of rage.
“What are you doing?” That was supposed to be mine!
I answered in a calm voice, “No, Artyom.” “Mom handed it to me. But is that the most essential thing? People are starting over here, see? Isn’t that worth more than cash?
He didn’t say anything and turned away.
A few months went by. The homes did nicely. Families got stronger. The youngsters laughed again.
One night, when I was watching kids run around in the courtyard, a woman came up to me. Svetlana was her name, and she was a single mother who had escaped from an abuser.
“I don’t know what to say to thank you… “You saved us,” she wept.
I held her close.
“Don’t thank me,” I said. “Thank you, Mom.”
I understand now that inheritance is not the same as property. It’s the kind things you do for other people.
You can always see light if you look closely enough, even on the darkest nights.
