The three-story house, once the warm home of the whole family, was filled with chatter and laughter that day. But hidden beneath the feast and offerings were the watchful, expectant eyes of everyone: today, her will would be read.

My mother-in-law had always been known for her wealth. Outsiders whispered that she held dozens of land title deeds, not to mention gold, jewelry, and bank savings. I never cared much—thinking it was a matter for the siblings. But my husband was different. He was certain that no matter what, we would receive a fair share.

He leaned close and whispered in my ear during the meal:
— Don’t worry. Mother loved me dearly. We might even get a townhouse.

Hearing that, a small hope rose in me. Ever since marrying him, I had endured many whispers about being “the outsider interfering in the inheritance.” But if we really received something, at least I wouldn’t be left empty-handed.

After the meal, my husband’s eldest aunt—the keeper of the will—brought out a folder of documents. The room fell silent.

— According to my sister-in-law’s wishes, I now announce: all ten land title deeds will be inherited by her youngest son, Tuan.

The room erupted in murmurs. I froze. My husband sat there, his mouth agape, eyes wide in disbelief.

The aunt continued:
— As for Ngoc, the eldest daughter-in-law, she shall receive a keepsake… a tin of biscuits.

Every gaze turned toward me. My hands trembled as I received the dented, old tin, inside which were nothing but broken biscuit crumbs. Relatives whispered among themselves:

— Well, it’s clear now. The son gets houses and land, the daughter-in-law gets biscuits.
— That tin is probably just trash.

My face burned with shame. My husband flushed red, leapt to his feet, and shouted:
— How is this fair? My wife stayed by Mother’s side for years, cooking and caring, and in the end, she only gets a broken tin of biscuits?

The aunt shook her head:
— This was her final wish. No one can go against it.

Mother-in-law had prepared well. Immediately after the announcement, the younger daughter-in-law locked the gate and declared:
— This house now belongs to us. You no longer have a place here.

We left empty-handed, under the gloating stares of certain relatives.

The days that followed were dark. My husband and I rented a cramped little room on the outskirts. He sank into despair, drinking every night. As for me, I was torn between resentment and sorrow.

One stormy evening, with barely a few coins left, I rummaged through our belongings. In the corner, I found the broken biscuit tin. Holding it, tears welled up—hunger forced me to open it, thinking we’d have to eat crumbs.

But inside, beneath the broken biscuits, was a carefully wrapped packet. My hands shook as I opened it. Inside was a land title deed—registered under my name.

I sat frozen. Mother-in-law had not abandoned me at all. She had hidden the inheritance in something that appeared worthless, shielding it from greedy eyes.

When I handed the deed to my husband, he was stunned, then broke down crying like a child:
— Mother… she was still thinking of us… and I wrongfully blamed her.

From that day, we sold the land and bought a small apartment. Life slowly steadied. My husband quit drinking and returned to work.

As for the broken biscuit tin, I kept it as a memento. Each time I looked at it, I remembered her stern yet warm eyes, and the lesson etched deep in my heart: true wealth is not in quantity, but in the love behind what is given.

On the fourth death anniversary, we returned to light incense. The house was now under Tuan’s management, but rumor had it that due to greed and failed business ventures, he had mortgaged away each deed to cover debts. The once-grand home was now bare, with only cracked walls left standing.

When he saw me, Tuan lowered his head, his voice trembling:
— Sister, I thought you were abandoned that day, but it turns out Mother was wise. I… I was wrong.

I only sighed:
— Mother loved us in different ways. But without care, no matter how much wealth one has, it will vanish like smoke.

The story closed there, yet its echo lingered. I once thought I was left with nothing, once resented, once despaired. But through a broken biscuit tin, I realized that Mother-in-law had foreseen everything, and chose to entrust her love silently, but profoundly.

Now, whenever I eat a biscuit, I no longer taste sweetness or saltiness—I taste the sacred bond of family, the lesson of greed and trust.

And I know, though she has gone, she still watches over me, protecting me in her own way.