My mother passed away and my father remarried. I was the aunt who had to raise two children who were not related by blood. Suddenly one day, my brother gave me a piece of paper hidden inside a rice barrel.

I am a single woman, 42 years old, working as a secondary school teacher in a remote province. Six years ago, my sister-in-law passed away after a sudden stroke, leaving behind two children: the older son was in first grade at that time, the younger daughter was still bottle-fed.

My brother – her husband – got married to another woman not long after that. To be frank, the new wife did not accept the “stepchild”, so he had to send the two children to me to take care of “for a while”. But that time lasted for  6 years , without any support, without a word of inquiry.

I did not complain, but silently shouldered the burden of raising the two children. Even though we were not related by blood, they still obediently listened to me when I called them “uncle”. Once, a friend asked:

“Are you crazy, why would you raise someone else’s child?”
I forced a smile:
“If you love them, then raise them, I feel sorry for them…”

Until one day early this summer, my 7-year-old brother – the oldest – suddenly shoved a crumpled piece of paper into my hand and whispered:

“I found it in the rice bin a long time ago, my mother told me not to give it to anyone… but I see you are too miserable…”

I held the paper – my hands trembling as I saw the slanted handwriting of  my deceased sister-in-law . The letter was only a few lines long, but it made my heart ache:

“If one day I am gone, please do not give my children to another woman. Please give them to my sister – the one who once said that if something happened to me, she would be their mother instead of me. If you cannot, please leave them with my aunt – a person who, although not related by blood, I know loves the children with all her heart.
Enclosed is the savings book I saved up during my years of working as a hired hand.”

I quickly ran to check the rice bin again – and was stunned when I touched the bottom of the pot: there was another carefully wrapped envelope.

Inside was  a savings book worth 980 million VND , in her name – with a power of attorney for me to withdraw the money if she passed away and the children’s father no longer cared for her.

I sat down on the floor. My tears kept falling. Not because of the money, but because after so many years of struggling,  I finally felt trusted, acknowledged – by a dead woman.

The End – And My Unexpected Decision…

I still kept the two children with me. But instead of using the money to pay off my debt, I opened a new account in the children’s names, telling myself:

“This money was left by their mother, I’m just keeping it for them. When you turn 18, you can withdraw it yourself – consider your mother still around.”