My mother left all her property to my sister, and I only received an old painting: my husband, in anger, threw the painting on the floor, the frame cracked, and a strange key fell out 

After my mother’s funeral, I sat in the notary’s office feeling betrayed. My mother had left almost all her property – three houses and savings – to my sister.

All I got was the old painting, which had hung on the wall in our home for many years.

My sister beamed with joy, smiling from ear to ear, not even trying to hide her triumph. I sat there, eyes downcast, not knowing where to put myself.

When we got home, my husband threw a fit. He shouted that my greedy mother had deliberately taken everything from me, blamed me for all the problems as if it were my fault that I now had nothing. Finally, he ripped the painting off the wall and angrily threw it at my feet:

— You and this stupid painting deserve each other! — he shouted, slammed the door, and left.

I bent down to pick up the painting from the floor and noticed that the frame was cracked. From the crack, something sparkled and fell. I picked up the object in my hands and froze — it was a large, antique key.

I quickly looked around, afraid my husband might come back and see it, but the house was silent. Trembling, I held the key and examined it carefully. And when I finally realized what this key was for, I was simply shocked  Continued in the first comment 

The key was exactly for my mother’s chest, which almost no one knew about.

I immediately went to my parents’ house. Upstairs in the attic, among the dust and old junk, I really found the chest.

My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it could be heard throughout the room. I inserted the key into the lock, turned it — and the lid creaked open slightly.

Inside were antique jewelry: large gold rings, emerald earrings, a pearl necklace — all clearly very valuable and very old. Underneath the jewelry, I noticed a carefully tied notebook — my mother’s diary.

I opened it and read the first lines. Tears welled up in my eyes.

My mother wrote that she had consciously left all the property to my sister, because she knew that she would sell any jewelry without thinking about its significance.

“And you,” wrote Mom, “you have always known how to preserve memories and protect what is dear to the heart. These jewels belonged to your grandmother and great-grandmother. I knew that only you could keep them safe for future generations.”

On the last page of the diary, I came across words that pierced me to the core:

“And one more thing, daughter. I see that your husband does not love you. He humiliates you and breaks your soul. Do not be afraid to leave him. Real life begins where fear ends.”

I sat in the cold attic, holding the diary and the antique jewelry in my hands, and for the first time in a long while, I felt that Mom truly knew and loved me.