In the small room, apart from an old wooden wardrobe, there was nothing of value. Only three worn wool blankets that my mother had carefully folded. I stared at them silently, my heart heavy. For me, those blankets represented my entire childhood. But my older brother mocked me:
"Why keep these torn blankets? It's better to throw them away."
The second one added:
"Exactly, they're not worth a penny." Whoever wants them can take them. I'm not going to transport garbage.
Their words hurt me deeply. Had they forgotten those winter nights when the whole family slept together and Mom covered each of us with those blankets while she shivered in her old patched coat?
I pursed my lips and said:
"If you don't want them, I'll take them."
The eldest man waved his hand:
"Whatever you want, I'll throw it away anyway."
The secret between the covers
The next day, I brought the three blankets back to my small apartment. I planned to wash them and keep them as souvenirs. As I shook one of them vigorously, I heard a sharp "crack!" as if something hard had fallen to the floor. I bent down, my heart pounding. Inside the torn lining was a small, hand-sewn brown fabric bag.
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