We took a road that climbed through the mountain to a vast piece of land surrounded by trees. In the center was a simple wooden house, encircled by flowers.
« Whose is this, Uncle? » I asked.
« For us, » he replied. « It’s for the family. »
After his release from prison, he worked odd jobs, saving little by little until he could buy this land. For ten years, he farmed it, built the house, but told no one.
My mother started to cry, and I held her close, unable to utter a word.
« Uncle, why didn’t you use that money for yourself? » I asked.
« I don’t need much, » he replied. « I’ve learned that when you make a mistake, all you need is someone who continues to believe in your goodness. This is my way of repaying that trust. »
The days passed. Mother regained her strength, perhaps thanks to the fresh air and the sweet fruit from the orchard. I helped her sell them to travelers.
They would say, « These fruits have a different, sweeter taste. »
My uncle would smile and reply:
« Because they were planted with gratitude. »
One day, I found an old wooden box in a corner of the house.
Engraved on the lid was: « If you are reading this, it means I am now at peace. »
I opened it. Inside was the deed in my name and a letter:
« I’m not good with words, that’s why I failed. Thank you, you and your mother, for not rejecting me when everyone else did. Don’t be afraid of making mistakes; be afraid of losing the goodness in your heart. »
I couldn’t finish reading it… tears prevented me.
A few months later, my uncle fell ill. Terminal cancer, the doctor said.
In his final moments at the hospital, he took my mother’s hand and whispered weakly:
« My sister… how sad it is not to see Tin (me) get married. But I leave happy. I know he now understands what it means to live well. »
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