My father passed away after a sudden illness, leaving my brother and me a house on the main street. It was the greatest asset of his life and also the place filled with family memories. When my father was still alive, the house was always full of laughter, the fragrance of my mother’s cooking, and the chatter of friends who came to visit. That house was not only a place to live, but also the soul of a lifetime. But once he was gone, the house suddenly became an invisible burden: how should it be divided fairly?

We discussed it, then came to a decision: sell it and split the money equally. A decision that seemed easy, but inside, each of us felt heavy-hearted. Because we both knew how valuable a main street house was. Selling it would bring in a large sum, enough to change many things in life.

At that time, Mr. Hoa – our next-door neighbor and my father’s longtime friend – called me to his house. He was a few years older than my father, with hair already white, a thin figure but still sharp eyes. He and my father had been close since youth, working together, building houses, sharing hardships. My father often said: “Without Hoa, this house would not exist.” To me, he was like family.

That day, when I stepped into his yard, I saw him sitting on an old wooden chair, a steaming teapot in front of him. His eyes were quiet, deeper than usual. He gestured for me to sit down, then lowered his voice:

“You know, I have no children, no relatives. I am old and won’t live much longer. If you cleverly side with me in the matter of selling your father’s house, then I will leave you half of my fortune. Here, land use certificates for plots right on the main street.”

As he spoke, he placed his hand on his chest pocket, where I glimpsed the corner of a red document. His words struck like a blade. In that moment, I could hear nothing else around me, only my own heart pounding wildly, as if it would burst from my chest.

That whole afternoon, I wandered like a lost soul. I went home, but his words haunted me: “half my fortune… land use certificates…” At night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I imagined holding those certificates in my hands, opening a business, buying a new car, sending my children to private schools. Just one step, and everything could come true.

But along with those sweet dreams came a faint guilt. I remembered my father’s words: “Money will run out, but dignity will follow you forever.” I remembered his stern yet loving eyes. And yet, only one day after his death, I was already tempted to forget his teaching.

I argued with myself. One voice whispered: “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Don’t waste it.” Another voice countered: “Unrighteous wealth, can you keep it? If people find out, how can you face your brother, your relatives?” And so, I wrestled with my own thoughts until nearly dawn.

The next morning, I rose early, heart filled with excitement and nervousness. I combed my hair, dressed neatly, then walked out as if attending a prize ceremony. The familiar street seemed longer that day, each step weighed down by dreams and ambitions. I told myself: “Today will be the turning point of my life.”

But as soon as I reached his gate, I froze. Before me was chaos: people coming and going, wailing cries, the thick smoke of incense. My heart stopped. I asked around, and then realized: Mr. Hoa had passed away during the night.

I staggered inside. There he lay, wrapped in a white shroud, face peaceful as if asleep. On the altar were a bowl of rice with an egg, incense smoke curling upward. Beside it, three red land use certificates were placed neatly, glowing in the candlelight.

My heart trembled, a spark of hope lit up: “Perhaps he had managed to write a will for me?” The thought made me swallow hard, my pulse racing. I inched closer, eyes locked on those red documents like a thirsty man staring at water.

The room fell silent as the village chief stepped forward, holding folded papers. In a solemn voice, he read clearly for all to hear:

“I, Hoa…, before my death, leave all my assets including three land plots to the commune authority. The proceeds will be used to establish a scholarship fund for poor children and to build houses of compassion for the needy. Absolutely no individual is to inherit privately.”

The words struck like hammers. I froze. The whole room spun, cries and murmurs fading into the distance. My face burned, ears rang. I knew then that every dream I had clung to overnight had shattered into nothing.

Before I could recover, I felt dozens of eyes upon me. Cold, suspicious, tinged with contempt. In that instant, I understood: he had told everyone about what happened the night before. He knew my greed, and with this will, he wanted to expose and warn me.

I was speechless, unable to defend myself. I wanted to deny, but the three red certificates lay there like evidence accusing me before the entire community. My body shook, my knees nearly buckled. In my mind, I saw my father’s face—stern, disappointed. I felt small, pathetic, ashamed to the core.

That night, I went home like a ghost. Lying down, I burst into tears. The sobs poured out uncontrollably, soaking my pillow. Never had I felt so humiliated. I had nearly lost my dignity, betrayed the lifelong friendship between my father and him, all for a promise of wealth.

People say, unrighteous wealth, even handed to you, will turn to ashes. Truly not wrong. If those certificates had fallen into my hands, they might have given me a few years of flashy prosperity. But then what? I would live in guilt, in the scorn of my brother, relatives, and neighbors. Change my life? No—only bury myself deeper.

Now, thanks to his will, those certificates became a light for dozens of poor children to attend school, for many houses of compassion to be built. And I, once a greedy dreamer, now had to face the darkness within myself.

Lying in the dark room, I listened to the wind outside. I suddenly realized: sometimes, what we think is a chance to change our life is only a test. If we overcome it, we grow. If we fall, we lose ourselves.

I fell at the very first step, but his will lifted me back up. The shame will follow me forever, but also as a reminder: live decently, know what is enough, know what is right. So that one day, when I stand before the altar of my father and him, I can raise my head and whisper in my heart:

“I understand now. Thank you, Father. Thank you, Uncle, for this lesson.”