It was a hot afternoon in the village. I—Hanh—was crouching down, gathering dry branches to light the fire. At the door, my ten-year-old son watched me with his innocent eyes.
“Mom, why don’t I have a father like my classmates?”
I couldn’t answer.
Ten years have passed, and I still can’t find an answer to that question. Years of Mockery and Humiliation
When I got pregnant, rumors began to spread throughout the village:
“Shame on you!
Pregnant without a husband! A disgrace to your parents!”
I gritted my teeth and endured it all.
With my belly growing ever larger, I worked wherever I could: weeding, harvesting rice, washing dishes at a diner.
Some threw garbage in front of my house, others spoke loudly as I passed by:
“The father of your child must have fled… who would want to bear such a shame?”
They didn’t know that the man I loved was overjoyed when he learned I was expecting a child. He told me he would return home to speak with his parents and ask for their blessing to marry. I believed him with all my heart.
But the next day, he disappeared without a trace.
From then on, I waited for him every day: no news, no messages. Years passed, and I raised my son alone.
There were nights when I hated him for the pain he reminded me of; others when I cried and prayed that his father was still alive… even though he had already forgotten me. Ten Years of Struggle
To send my son to school, I worked tirelessly.
I saved every coin, swallowed every tear.
When other children mocked him for not having a father, I hugged him tightly and said,
“You have your mother, son. And that’s enough.”
But people’s words were knives that repeatedly pierced my heart. At night, while he slept, I gazed into the lamplight and remembered the man I loved—his smile, his warm eyes—and wept silently.
The Day the Luxury Cars Stopped in Front of My House
One rainy morning, I was sewing my son’s clothes when I heard the loud roar of engines.
The neighbors came out curiously. In front of my humble house, several clean, shiny, black cars lined up, obviously from the city.
The murmurs began:
“My God! Who owns those cars?
Each one costs millions!”
Trembling, I took my son’s hand and got out.
The door of one of the cars opened, and an old man with white hair, dressed in a black suit, got out, his eyes brimming with tears. He stared at me, and before I could say anything, he knelt in the mud. I froze.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
