Chapter 15 — Betrayed by My Own Mother, Saved by My Mother-in-Law

Mother Chau shot me a sharp, icy glare. "Take it back and eat it. If a scholar skips even a single bite, I will not let you hear the end of it." I stood there, stiff as a post. Dai Tru whispered, "Trieu Thu, just eat it. Once you finish your exams, I will head up the mountain and catch you a rabbit." Mother Chau rapped him on the head. "Enough of your bragging. If the rabbits heard you, they would laugh themselves into a fever." I burst into laughter, and the tension that had been pulled tight like a wire finally began to loosen.

Three days before the exams, the county issued the admission slips. Teacher Diep had cycled all the way up to fetch them, arriving soaked in sweat. The paper was thin and translucent, imprinted with my name, the examination hall, and my candidate number. As I held it, my palms burned with heat. This scrap of paper was more precious than any dowry in the world. Mother Chau traced the print with her fingers. "Is this really all you need to get inside that room?" I nodded. She pressed her palms together, bowing toward the doorway. "Heaven above, Buddha below, please watch over my girl and make the path smooth for her."

"Mother..." The word escaped my lips as naturally as a breath. Mother Chau went rigid. Dai Tru looked stunned. My face flushed crimson, but I refused to take it back. "Mother, I will do my best." Her eyes turned a glistening red. She quickly turned away, using the edge of her tunic to dab at her tears. "Yes, yes, do your best." Her reply was soft, but it sounded as if she had been waiting a lifetime to hear that word.

That night, Mother Chau carefully wrapped my admission slip in plastic and tucked it into the innermost compartment of her bag. She checked my pencils, eraser, ruler, change, and identification certificates again and again. "Mother, that is enough," I said. She shook her head. "It is not enough. This journey of yours is more significant than the day you were sent off to be married." I remained silent for a moment before saying softly, "That day was not a marriage; it was being sold into a trap." Mother Chau paused, then gripped my hand tightly. "Then this time, it is truly walking out of that prison."

The day before the exam, we traveled to the county seat and rented a squalid room. The chamber contained two moldy wooden beds, and the plaster was flaking off the walls in thick sheets. Mother Chau insisted on staying to look after me, while Dai Tru rolled out a mat to sleep in the corridor. As night fell, I tossed and turned, unable to find sleep. In the darkness, Mother Chau spoke. "Nervous?"

"Yes."

"What are you afraid of?"

"Failing the test."

She gave a small laugh. "Then think of the pig." I was startled. She continued, as calm as ever, "The pig is sold and the money is spent; you have no other way to turn now, do you? Since the arrow is on the bowstring, you must let it fly." I burst into laughter, and as I laughed, tears began to spill. She patted my back gently, as if soothing a child. "Go to sleep. No matter how difficult the questions are tomorrow, just fill the pages with everything you know. If you can put it on the paper, you have already won."

The next morning, the entrance to the county high school was a sea of people. I stood outside the fence, listening to the bell toll for the start of the exams. Mother Chau handed me my bag, her hands trembling slightly. "Trieu Thu, go on in." Dai Tru stood nearby, fumbling for words before finally managing, "Do not panic." I nodded. As I stepped into the school grounds, I dared not look back. I was afraid that if I turned, I would cry. But I knew they were standing there, watching me—like two lighthouses guiding me through the crowd, straight into the room that would decide my fate.

The first subject was Literature. I sat at the third desk by the window, where an ancient pagoda tree stood outside, its leaves rustling in the breeze. When the proctor handed out the papers, my palms were slick with sweat. As the exam sheet touched the desk, I squeezed my eyes shut. Mother Chau’s words echoed in my ears: Write until the paper is full. I opened my eyes and locked my gaze on the first question. Grammar, reading comprehension, composition. The questions were not malicious. My heart began to slow. The essay prompt asked about the ideals of youth and the path of the era.

As I held the pen, countless images flashed through my mind: the charred remains of the notebook burned in my birth family's kitchen; the sight of myself kneeling in the mud under the glaring red character for Happiness; Mother Chau sitting under a dim lamp asking, "Do you still want to learn?"; the empty pigpen; the tiny blackboard hung by the cow shed. I wrote without stopping. I did not write of resentment or hatred. I wrote about a soul rising from the mud to find a path toward the light, about how knowledge provides those without a voice the opportunity to change their lives. I wrote about how women, too, can stand against the winds of the times and use their own hands to carve a path forward. When the final bell rang, I put down the pen, my wrist aching and numb.

As I walked out of the hall, Mother Chau and Dai Tru rushed forward. "How was it?" Mother Chau asked urgently. I smiled. "Every question I knew, I filled the page." She exhaled, relieved, and immediately pulled a corn cake from her bag. "Eat."

The second subject, Mathematics, was my strength. Glancing over the paper, I felt a surge of quiet confidence. The beginning problems went smoothly, but the final, long-form question was a challenge. I solved half and then hit a wall. Time slipped away, and the sound of rustling exam papers around me felt like hail pelting my heart. I took a deep breath, flipped over to the blank side of my scratch paper, and began to map out the figure. In that moment, I remembered the words of the principal: The books may be old, but the knowledge is timeless. I also remembered the advice of Teacher Diep: Do not just memorize—you must learn to think.