The day Mom left, my brothers and I cleaned the old house. On top of the wardrobe, we found three identical blankets, carefully folded.

— Old junk, grumbled my eldest brother. — Toss it.

I said nothing. These blankets had cradled our childhood. I took them.

At home, when I shook one of them, a metallic noise rang out. An old key fell to the floor. My daughter, fascinated, asked:

— Dad, what does it open?

I didn’t know. Then, inside the lining, I discovered an envelope where Mom had written:

“To my children. For when I am no longer here.”

She explained:

“The first bedspread hides a secret: the key opens the old shed. The second and third are for you and your children. Never forget that a mother’s warmth is not in the wool, but in love.”

The next day, I opened the shed. Inside a chest, there were photos, drawings, some savings, and a medal: For valor at work. She had kept everything, and given it all.

In the second blanket, I found three little children’s socks, each with a note:

“Your first steps, Vania. Your first cough, Sergei. Your first laugh, Kolia.”

I realized: she had never stopped loving us.

The last one contained an icon, a crucifix, and a message:

“Don’t let the house grow cold. Return at least once a year. Love lives where memory lingers.”

I went back. I cleaned, opened the shutters, laid the blankets on the bed. My daughter ran around, laughing as if the old home had come alive again. And I felt… the scent of lily of the valley.

A soft voice seemed to whisper:

— Thank you, my son.

That day, I understood: a mother’s legacy is not gold or walls, but the warmth she leaves in our hearts—a fire that no death can extinguish.