Mom's Tin Box

My mother lived for fifty-three years, thirty of them as a workhorse for the Lin family.

She did the laundry, cooked, raised the children, and tended to her in-laws, even cleaning up after them.

She handed over her pay card and had to report every purchase to her mother-in-law, even sanitary pads.

When she gave birth to me, she was beaten.

When she gave birth to my younger brother, Grandma set off a string of firecrackers.

When she died, my father signed the papers without hesitation.

Everyone thought she'd been poor and downtrodden all her life, leaving nothing behind.

But when I felt around beneath her pillow and found the metal box,

my hands began to shake.

Inside were a key, an address, and a sentence.