[CONTINUED AND END OF STORY]

That evening, as I sat across from Aunt Cham in her modest but peaceful home, something inside me settled for the first time in months. The scent of her tea, the faint hum of the electric fan, and the way she quietly arranged the cups—it was all so familiar, so maternal. I realized I had been longing for this calm, this warmth, more than I thought.

After a while, I finally spoke, voice heavy with guilt and truth:

“Aunt… no, Mom Cham, I came to say sorry. And… to thank you. For everything.”

She looked at me, eyes brimming with emotion but her smile unwavering.

“You were always different,” she whispered. “Even when you were little, you saw things your brothers didn’t. I never needed thanks. I just needed peace.”

I nodded, wiping my eyes. Then, I told her the truth: that I knew about the house, that I knew what Father had done, and why.

Her hands trembled slightly. She set the teacup down and closed her eyes.

“He was harsh in the end, but I knew… I knew it was for me. He didn’t say it, but I saw it in his eyes. He couldn’t protect me from everything, but he tried in his own way.”

We sat in silence, and in that stillness, I realized that love doesn’t always look like affection. Sometimes, it looks like distance. Like sacrifice. Like pain carefully concealed.

One week later, I gathered my two older brothers at a coffee shop. They were surprised when I called, even more so when I showed up with photocopies of documents—title deeds, property transfers, signed waivers.

Their faces fell when they realized what I was showing them.

“So… Dad gave her the house?” my eldest brother muttered.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “Four months before he passed. It was legally hers. He signed everything himself.”

“But… why would he kick her out then?”

I looked them both in the eye, my tone sharper now.

“Because he knew you two would make her life miserable if you found out. Because he trusted her more than he trusted us. And maybe… he had every reason to.”

They said nothing. My second brother leaned back in his chair, suddenly looking very small. Regret crept over their faces like slow-setting concrete.

“She never wanted anything,” I added. “She took care of us like we were her own. But we—you—treated her like a burden. And now, we don’t even deserve to knock on her door.”

There was no anger in my voice, just truth. They didn’t argue.

In the months that followed, I visited Mom Cham regularly. I helped her plant flowers in her small yard. Sometimes Jio—my eldest brother’s son—would come along. He had always been fond of her, always sneaking into the kitchen for her special banana turon. Slowly, quietly, the next generation began what we could not finish.

I never told my brothers this, but I decided to transfer my portion of the inheritance—my share of the farmland—to her name. It was the least I could do. Not as payment, not as guilt, but as something that should have been hers all along.

One day, as we were sitting on the porch sipping tea, I asked her:

“Do you ever think about going back to the old house?”

She shook her head gently, gazing into the trees.

“No. That house was where I gave. This house… is where I’ve started to receive. I think your father wanted me to rest. And now, I finally can.”

Epilogue

Years later, when I got married and had a child of my own, we would often spend weekends at Mom Cham’s place. My wife adored her, and my son called her “Lola Cham” without ever knowing we didn’t share blood.

To this day, I believe my father’s last gift wasn’t land or a house.

It was the chance for someone who gave everything to finally be seen.

And for a son… to finally understand.

—End—