The house that once echoed with laughter now stood silent and empty. Old age and illness had worn down Mrs. Lan; her memory was fading, like figures drifting in mist. After much discussion, her three children decided to place her in a nursing home. They all insisted it was for her better care, but deep down, each felt relieved to finally lay down the burden.
On the day Mrs. Lan left her lifelong home, her face betrayed little sadness. Yet her eyes—glistening—revealed she knew the significance of this moment, that she was being led into the final chapter of her life. Her children bid her quick goodbyes before hurrying away, returning to the grand family house where their parents’ estate awaited division.
That afternoon, laughter and chatter filled the living room. The eldest son, Thành, poured a glass of wine, his voice full of excitement:
“Now that Mother’s in a safe place, let’s settle the property. We’ll sell this villa and split the money—everyone gets their fair share.”
The daughter, Thu, nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling:
“All I need is a small apartment for my husband and me, plus a little capital. You two can keep the land on the outskirts.”
Even the usually quiet youngest son, Dũng, spoke up:
“As long as it’s fair, with no disputes. Our parents worked hard their whole lives for this—we should keep the peace.”
They clinked glasses, laughter echoing. Yet inside, each harbored private thoughts. Outside, dusk crept in, cold wind hinting at an approaching storm.
A Phone Call That Changed Everything
That night, while the siblings talked, the landline abruptly rang. Its urgent, shrill sound startled them. Thành frowned and answered:
“Hello, who is this?”
On the other end, a trembling, hoarse voice replied:
“You… are heartless… Old Mrs. Lan has not gone anywhere…”
Thành’s face turned pale; his fingers trembled. Thu panicked and interjected:
“Who are you? Speak clearly!”
Only heavy breathing and static remained—then the line cut off. Silence suffocated the room. Rain hammered the windows, echoing dread in their hearts.
Just hours before, they had divided the inheritance gleefully; now, it felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over them. Dũng spoke in a rough voice:
“Could it be… Mother calling us?”
No one responded. Only the ticking clock sounded as they exchanged uneasy glances.
Sleepless Night and Self-Reflection
The phone call haunted them. Thành tried to convince himself it was a prank—“There are so many phone scams these days”—but his voice lacked conviction. Thu, still distraught, whispered, “But they knew Mother’s name…”
Dũng dialed the nursing home. The nurse confirmed Mrs. Lan was asleep, her health stable; nothing unusual had happened. “She sometimes dreams, but we monitor everything closely,” said the nurse.
Relieved but still uneasy, the siblings agreed to postpone dividing the property. Thành locked the deed documents away. That night, none slept well.
Thành tossed and turned, mind racing with financial calculations. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his mother’s gaze—clouded yet piercing—on the day she signed the admission papers. Thu buried herself under the blanket, recalling her mother’s kitchen and her advice: “You can divide food, but you can’t divide filial piety.” Now, those words struck a tender place in her heart. Dũng, meanwhile, sat against the wall, clutching his mother’s old phone—he’d planned to copy her cherished messages and contacts. The simple texts, about groceries and medical appointments, pierced him with their ordinariness and affection.
At night, rain and wind rattled the doors. The siblings moved about the old house, checking locks, recalling memories that suddenly felt fragile and precious.
Secrets Unveiled
The next morning, the siblings visited Mrs. Lan. The nursing home was bright with bougainvillea flowers. Mrs. Lan sat on the porch, her smile gentle but weary. Thu rushed to embrace her, inhaling the scent of medicated oil in her mother’s hair.
“Did you call home last night, Mother?” Dũng asked softly.
Mrs. Lan blinked. “I don’t have a phone here. We all sleep early,” she said. The nurse confirmed this.
Feeling reassured, the siblings left. Near the intersection, a man passed Thu, whispering: “Watch out for the old house.” He disappeared quickly, leaving only the smell of street food behind.
Later that day, the siblings checked the family home. The gate was intact, but there was a fresh trail of mud in the yard. Inside, they found a small wooden box missing from Mrs. Lan’s room. It was an old box, never opened by anyone but their parents. Thu knew for sure it had been there when she packed her mother’s things.
Thành called a locksmith to replace all the locks. Exploring further, Dũng found a velvet pouch hidden in the attic. Inside was a yellowed letter: “To my children, while I am still clear-headed.” The letter revealed a secret passage in the ancestral room.
Following the instructions, the siblings found the hidden compartment, which contained a suitcase and bundles wrapped in newspaper. The suitcase held the title to a suburban plot and a leather-bound notebook titled “Debts and Favors.”
Thu opened the notebook. Each page recorded gifts and debts—sometimes money, more often simple gestures of kindness. The final page highlighted: “Lộc—10 million—unpaid, due in March,” plus a phone number.
Dũng recalled the bicyclist’s warning. He called the number; the man—Lộc—explained he had tried to warn them about suspicious strangers seeking the box. He had copied the house number and called amid the commotion to alert them.
The truth became clear: outsiders had been after what they thought was hidden wealth, but the box contained only a land title and the notebook.
Lessons in Kindness
That night, the siblings gathered at the table, the “Debts and Favors” notebook before them. The phone call, the stranger, the missing box—all these threads pulled them away from narrow calculations and forced them to reflect on gratitude and memory. Mrs. Lan’s note in the notebook read: “A house is for living, not just for selling. If you must sell, keep the ancestral shrine, and never forget you were once poor.”
The next day, police investigated and found the intruder—a man whose swallow tattoo gave him away. He confessed; greed had drawn him to an empty house rumored to hold riches. The family’s anxiety eased, replaced by a sense of humility.
With their mother, the siblings discussed the notebook. Mrs. Lan explained: “When people give us something, I record it so my heart doesn’t feel too rich. When we give, I record it so my heart doesn’t feel too poor.” The children told her of their new plan—to keep the family house, preserve the altar, repay outstanding debts, and honor remembered kindness.
Choosing Family Over Profit
Life in the family home revived. Renovations began. Thu stayed over weekly; Dũng installed security systems; Thành arranged bank loans using suburban land as collateral. Lộc visited, repaying his debt in small bills, recording “Paid—with gratitude” in the notebook.
On Sunday, Mrs. Lan returned home for two days. She touched plants in the yard and went straight to the altar, lighting incense: “Ancestors, I’m home.” The house came alive, not with the clatter of negotiations, but with everyday joys—homemade meals, laughter, and quiet togetherness.
During dinner, Mrs. Lan said, “Eat. Whatever the matter, eat while the food’s still hot. Calculations can wait till after the meal.” The rice tasted richer than ever—not from salt or fish sauce, but from rekindled peace.
After her children had settled her in bed, Thành sat with the notebook, writing: “Three siblings—one meal, one home, one promise.” Thu leaned on his shoulder; Dũng adjusted their mother’s pillow. Outside, wind rustled starfruit leaves, gently scenting the night.
Now, no phone calls could frighten them. If fear returned, they promised to answer with understanding and unity. And somewhere in the silence, their father’s words echoed: “A house is a place to live.”
That unexpected phone call was not meant to scare them—it was a wake-up call, before “home” was reduced to numbers in a bank account.
