Mother Was Just Sent to a Nursing Home, and Her Children Immediately Gathered to Divide the Inheritance. But That Night, a Strange Phone Call Turned Their Joy into Fear…

The house that once rang with laughter now stood hollow. Old age and illness had weakened Mrs. Lan, her memory fading with time. After much discussion, her three children decided to place her in a nursing home. They all claimed it was for her better care, but deep down, each felt relieved to have finally laid down the burden.

On the day Mrs. Lan left the home she had lived in her entire life, her face did not show much sadness. Yet her glistening eyes revealed she knew she was being led into the final chapter of her life. Her children offered a few quick words of farewell before hastily leaving. They returned 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 brimming with excitement:

“Now that Mother’s in a safe place, let’s go ahead and settle the property issue. We’ll sell this villa and split the money—everyone gets their fair share.”

The daughter, Thu, nodded eagerly, her eyes gleaming:

“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.”

The youngest son, Dũng—usually quiet—also spoke up that day:

“As long as it’s fair, and no disputes arise. Our parents worked hard their whole lives to build all this, we should at least keep the harmony.”

They clinked glasses, laughter echoing, though each harbored private calculations. Outside, dusk was falling, the chill wind hinting at an approaching storm.

That night, as the three were still talking, the landline in the living room suddenly rang. The shrill, urgent sound jolted them. Thành frowned and picked up the receiver:

“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 trembling. Thu panicked and cut in:

“Who are you? Speak clearly!”

But only heavy, ragged breathing remained, mixed with static—then the line went dead. The entire room sank into suffocating silence. Rain began pounding against the glass, each beat like a hammer striking their hearts.

Just hours earlier, they had been gleefully dividing the inheritance; now, it was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over them. Dũng spoke first, his voice rough:

“Could it be… Mother calling us?”

No one answered. Only the ticking clock echoed in the vast room, as the three siblings exchanged fearful, suspicious glances.

That phone call marked the beginning of dark days ahead—days when each of them would be forced to face their greed, their memories, and the truth they had long chosen to ignore.

After the call, it felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the house. Thành regained composure the fastest. He walked straight to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, though his hand still shook, spilling water over the rim, running down the glass. Thu sank onto a chair, clutching her head. Dũng stood by the window, staring out into the rain as the drops tapped against the glass, like ghostly fingers calling their names. No one dared repeat the word “heartless” that had just echoed through the receiver.

“It could have been a prank,” Thành finally said, though his voice lacked conviction. “There are so many phone scams these days.”

“But they knew Mother’s name…” Thu whispered, her eyes still wet. Since their father’s death, Thu had been the one closest to their mother. Despite her busy life, she always visited at least once a week—bringing a bowl of simple vegetable soup, a plate of ripe bananas, the little things their mother loved. And yet it was Thu herself who first suggested the nursing home—“for professional care,” she had said, reassuring her siblings and herself.

Dũng silently dialed the nursing home again. On the other end, the nurse on duty confirmed that Mrs. Lan had already gone to sleep after her porridge, her health stable, nothing unusual. “She may dream sometimes, but our system monitors very closely,” the nurse added, polite yet firm.

Hanging up, Dũng sighed with relief, though not at ease. “She’s still there. Everything’s fine,” he said. Thu nodded, but kept her arms tightly crossed over her chest. Thành stood, gathering the land titles and property papers into a folder, locking it shut with a decisive click. “Enough for today. We’ll sort it out tomorrow,” he concluded, trying to restore the composure of the eldest brother.

That night, none of them slept well. Thành tossed and turned, his mind racing with numbers: sale prices, transfer papers, division percentages, tuition fees, a business project in need of capital. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw his mother’s cloudy yet piercing gaze from the day she signed the admission papers. The clock’s ticking was like a tiny hammer striking his temple.

Thu pulled the blanket to her chin, the faint smell of laundry powder in the fabric. She remembered their mother’s kitchen—the small charcoal stove, the sweet warmth of roasted yams. Their mother used to say: “You can divide food, but you can’t divide filial piety.” At the time, Thu thought it was some distant lesson. Now the words pierced her like a needle, striking the softest place in her heart.

Dũng sat against the wall, holding his mother’s old phone—he had secretly taken it when packing her things, intending to copy her photos and contacts. Inside were simple text messages to a friend at the market: “Today there’s fresh bok choy.” “Remember to bring your insurance card to the clinic.” Such ordinary words, yet heartbreakingly tender. In the living room, a faint metallic sound echoed—the wind rattling the lock in the doorframe. Dũng stood, checked the doors, poured himself a glass of water. On the wall hung a black-and-white wedding photo: their mother slender in a traditional dress, their father kind as the earth itself. “Mother…” Dũng murmured.

The next morning, the three of them went together to the nursing home. The place was clean, with bright bougainvillea blooming. Mrs. Lan sat on the porch, a handwoven scarf on her lap, her eyes gazing into the sunlight. She smiled when she saw her children, weary but gentle. Thu rushed to embrace her, inhaling the faint scent of medicated oil in her hair.

“Did you call home last night, Mother?” Dũng asked softly.

Mrs. Lan blinked. “I don’t even have a phone here. We all go to bed by half past eight.” She turned to the nurse nearby, who confirmed: “She slept very soundly last night.”

They felt somewhat reassured, but as they left, near the intersection by the nursing home, a man in his forties pedaled by on a street cart. As he passed Thu, he leaned close and whispered:

“Watch out for the old house.”

Then he pushed his cart away like the wind, leaving behind only the faint smell of soy sauce and fried shallots.

“What was that?” Thành frowned.

“No idea. Maybe mistaken,” Thu replied, though her heart was uneasy.

That afternoon, they went back to the old house to check. The iron gate was still locked, but inside the yard there was a strange, fresh trail of mud. Dũng crouched down, touched it with his finger—the mud was still damp. Thành unlocked the door. A musty smell hit them, the smell of a house left empty too long. They walked around; everything seemed intact, except… the small wooden box, about the size of a book, in their mother’s room was gone. That box was old, and she had never allowed anyone to open it. When their father was alive, he kept the key hanging on a little nail behind their wedding photo frame, telling them: “Leave it there for your mother.”

“Maybe Mother took it with her?” Thu suggested, but she herself knew it wasn’t true: when she packed things up, she had seen the box still there.

Thành called a locksmith to replace all the locks. Dũng climbed up to the attic for another look and found a small velvet pouch stuck under a beam. Inside was a yellowed letter: “To my children, while I am still clear-headed.” Dũng swallowed hard and called his brother and sister up. Thành opened the letter. Their mother’s handwriting was soft yet firm: “This house has a back room that serves as the ancestral shrine. I never mentioned it for fear you’d find it troublesome. Inside that room, there is a small passage…”

They looked at each other. What passage? The three of them went down to the back room, which had once been their parents’ bedroom. Old wooden walls, a wardrobe, a wooden table, a dusty old TV that hadn’t been turned on for years. Dũng tapped along the wall; at the far-left corner came a hollow thud, different from the rest. He pushed, and the plank shifted slightly. Thành ran to get a crowbar; after a few pries, a narrow, pitch-dark space opened—just wide enough for a person to crawl through.

Inside, there was no gold or treasure like in novels. Only an old suitcase and several bundles wrapped in newspaper and tied with string. Thành carried the suitcase to the table, unlocked it with the key found in the envelope. Inside were the land title of a plot in the suburbs and a leather-bound notebook. On the cover, handwritten words read: “Debts and Favors.”

Thu opened the notebook. Each page listed someone’s name—sometimes with a small sum of money, sometimes only notes like “a meal on a rainy day,” or “a warm coat.” Their mother had recorded, all her life, what others had given her and what she had given to them. On the final page, one name was underlined boldly: “Lộc—10 million—unpaid, due in March.” Beneath it was a phone number.

“Who’s Lộc?” Thu asked.

Dũng suddenly remembered the man on the bicycle who had whispered the strange warning outside the nursing home. “It could be him.” He dialed the number in the notebook. On the other end, a hoarse male voice answered:

“Ah, Dũng? This is Lộc. I… have been meaning to talk to you about this for a long time.”

“What is it?”

“The wooden box in Madam Lan’s room. Someone’s searched for it several times. I sell goods in front of the house—I noticed something strange, so last night I called to warn you… but it was too noisy, I couldn’t make myself clear. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You called… the house number?” Dũng whispered.

“Yes. I copied it from the nameplate on the gate. A group of strangers on motorbikes without license plates came around. A few days ago, they even asked if Madam Lan still lived there.”

The three of them fell silent. Thành clenched his fists, veins bulging. “So, someone was after the box. But inside… there’s only the land title and this notebook.” His voice dropped. “Maybe they thought there was money.”

That night, under the dim yellow light, they sat around the table. The “Debts and Favors” notebook lay open like a mirror reflecting back at them. The late-night call, the stranger, the missing box, the secret compartment—all these wove into a taut thread, pulling them away from their dry calculations of inheritance shares. On the inside cover was a small note in their mother’s handwriting: “A house is for living, not for selling. If you must sell, remember to keep the ancestral shrine. And never forget you were once poor.”

Outside, the rain had eased. But inside them, another kind of rain had begun—slow, unrelenting, washing away layers of long-settled greed.

The next morning, Thành suggested reporting the suspicious break-in to the police. Lộc was invited to give a statement. He sat timidly on the chair, hands still smelling of shrimp paste from selling noodles. “I owe Madam Lan, but I haven’t managed to repay,” Lộc said, eyes red. “When my wife gave birth prematurely, she lent me money—no papers, just told me, ‘Bring it back when you can.’ I wanted to repay, but business has been so bad… Then I overheard some guys at the alley saying this house would be sold, and I feared they’d break in, so I called last night. I didn’t expect to frighten you.”

Thành exhaled, tension easing, but something else grew inside him: shame. These past days, his mind had been churning only with calculations—house value, land shares, investments. Meanwhile, scattered somewhere were debts and favors so small they wouldn’t even be noted by the rich, yet for the poor they meant a whole chapter of life. “It’s all right,” Thành said. “The police will handle the break-in. You just focus on your work—repay whenever you can. But… did you see their faces clearly?”

Lộc shook his head. “They wore helmets, masks. But one of them had a swallow tattoo on his neck.”

That detail was recorded. The police promised to investigate and advised the family to stay cautious for the next few days. The locks were replaced, cameras and motion-sensor lights installed. Thu tidied the ancestral altar, carefully wiping each framed photo and replacing the incense sticks. Dũng sealed the wooden panel again, fastening it from the inside, as though closing a secret everyone now knew.

In the afternoon, the three of them decided to visit the nursing home, bringing along the “Debts and Favors” notebook. Mrs. Lan was listening to a cải lương program on the radio. When she saw her children, she smiled, her eyes shining like the young woman in the old wedding photo. Thu sat down beside her and softly said, “Mom, we found your notebook.”

She hesitated, then nodded gently. “Don’t laugh at me. I forget many things, but not these. When people give us something, I write it down so my heart doesn’t feel too rich. When we give something away, I write it down so my heart doesn’t feel too poor.”

Thành swallowed hard, his voice low: “Mom, we… were thinking of selling the house. But after reading the notebook, we feel we need to reconsider.”

She looked out at the porch, where sunlight fell in fragments. “The house can be sold. But not the altar room. A house without a place of remembrance is no different from a house without a roof,” she said slowly, as if reading from her own heart. “Whatever you decide, remember your grandparents, remember the neighbors who once lent you a ladder, who once shared a pinch of salt. As for money… money is like water; it dries up the moment you clutch it in your hands.”

Dũng told her about the intruders, about Lộc’s warning. She listened, then sighed softly. “Lộc… when he was little, he used to steal guavas from our tree. Your father never scolded him, even gave him chili salt to dip them in. He’s always been poor. I lent him money not because I had much, but because I remembered borrowing from others when I was young. No one stays rich in heart if they forget gratitude.”

They sat together for a long while. Mrs. Lan dozed off, her lips still mouthing the unfinished cải lương verse. Thu rose to pull the blanket over her, tears welling in her eyes. Outside, other elderly residents were practicing tai chi, their steady breathing like the slowed rhythm of life.

That evening, the three siblings sat around the table again—this time with hot tea instead of wine. Thành spoke first: “I suggest we put the house sale on hold. Let’s repair it, hire someone to watch over it, and preserve the altar room. If we need money, we can mortgage the land on the outskirts instead of cutting up the house. We’ll recalculate the shares, but first, we set aside a fund for Mom’s care, hire better nurses, and sometimes bring her home for a few days.”

Thu’s face lit up. “I was thinking the same. I’ll arrange to stay at the house one night every week, so it won’t feel so empty.”

Dũng nodded. “I’ll cover the costs for cameras, locks, and a new gate. And… we should reach out to the people listed in the notebook. If there are debts, we pay them back. If there are favors we haven’t repaid, we find a way to honor them.”

Thanh looked at his two younger siblings, feeling as if a heavy burden had just been lifted. “Alright.” He laughed—a rare, genuine laugh. “Let’s do it the way Mom wrote.”

In the days that followed, the house came alive again—not with talk of selling prices, but with the sound of carpenters measuring, brooms sweeping the yard, Thu calling the children to bring out the chrysanthemum pots to catch the sun, Dũng installing cameras with a steady “click-click,” and Thanh on the phone with the bank about a loan. At the alley’s end, Lộc dropped by, clutching a bundle of small notes he had painstakingly saved. Thanh waved him off: “Don’t worry about that yet. Help me move this cabinet first.” Lộc placed the money in an old box and wrote a line in the notebook: “Paid—with gratitude.”

One afternoon, the police reported they had caught the intruder: the swallow tattoo on his neck gave him away at a pawnshop. He confessed he thought there was hidden money in the house, having heard rumors about an old wooden box. The truth was simple, mundane, without any sinister plot—just greed lurking by the door, waiting for the house to be empty. The family sighed in relief—not because of “justice,” but because the nameless fear now had a face.

On Sunday, they brought Mother home for two days. Mrs. Lan leaned on her cane as she entered the yard, touching an old periwinkle pot, her eyes pausing on the starfruit tree behind the house. She walked straight to the family altar, lit a stick of incense, and murmured: “Ancestors, I’m home.” The smoke was thin and fragrant, like the scent of new rice flakes. Thanh stood behind her, instinctively pressing his palms together. Thu laid out a meal: crab soup with jute leaves, pickled eggplants, caramelized fish in a clay pot, and a plate of ripe bananas. Dũng flicked on the ceiling fan; its creaking was strangely comforting.

During the meal, she asked about the inheritance. Thanh answered without hesitation: “We’ve agreed to keep the house, if you permit, Mom. With the suburban land, we can manage a small loan. Each person’s share will be arranged as needed, but first we’ll set aside a fund to care for you. And also… settle the ‘debts’ in your notebook, and find ways to repay the ‘kindnesses.’”

Mrs. Lan smiled and placed a piece of fish on each child’s plate. “Eat. Whatever the matter, eat while the food’s still hot. Calculations can wait till after the meal. People quarrel easily on an empty stomach.”

All three laughed. The rice tasted rich, not from salt or fish sauce, but from a long-lost peace. Later, they would discuss paperwork, renovation plans, hospital visits, and other small, practical matters. They knew hardships still lay ahead: loans, work, children, and days so exhausting they wouldn’t want to open their eyes. But they also knew that in this house, by the family altar, there would always be a place for “remembrance”—of those who had passed, of those who had helped, and of themselves, once poor yet full of love.

That night, after their mother had fallen asleep, Thanh sat on the porch with the “Debts and Kindnesses” notebook open. He picked up a pen and wrote on the last page: “Three siblings—one meal, one home, one promise.” Thu leaned on his shoulder, and Dũng adjusted a pillow for their mother. Outside, the wind rustled through the starfruit leaves, releasing a gentle sour fragrance into the night. No panicked phone calls rang anymore. And if they did, the siblings knew they would answer differently—not with panic or false cheer, but with the calm of a warm yellow light that had already weathered storms.

And somewhere, in the silence of the back room, their father’s old whisper seemed to return: “A house is a place to live.” A sentence once forgotten among price lists and contracts now took root in their hearts, steady and firm, like the beams that hold the roof through sun and rain. That unexpected phone call that night—it wasn’t meant to frighten them, but to awaken them, before “home” was reduced to nothing more than numbers in a bank account.