Chapter 2 — Betrayed by My Own Mother, Saved by My Mother-in-Law

I crumpled the corner of my red shirt, pressing it down hard over my mathematics textbook. The edges of the book were curled and frayed, holding a jagged clipping from an old newspaper inside: University entrance exams—talent selected regardless of background. I had recited these words in my mind countless times. I had originally asked my former teacher to help me secure an application form, but my mother told me my younger brother needed money to build a house, and since the family was short on funds, she would not allow me to travel to town anymore. Shortly after, she tricked me into attending a banquet where my fate was sealed. Thinking of this, tears welled up and fell onto the page, blurring the ink.

Are you reading again?

Mother Chau’s voice suddenly echoed from the doorway. I panicked, shoving the book into my bag. The door was left ajar, and she stood there holding a sewing basket, having seen my desperate scramble. My heart hammered against my ribs. Back in my parents' home, my mother loathed nothing more than seeing me read. She insisted that books could not be boiled into a meal, and that reading too much only invited trouble and prevented a girl from settling down properly. Once, when she discovered me studying by the light of a lamp late at night, she blew it out and threw my notebooks directly into the hearth. I lunged to save them and suffered a blistering burn on the back of my hand. Since then, I had learned to hide my books. Mother Chau entered, her eyes lingering on my bag. Instinctively, I hugged it to my chest. "This is my private business," I said. She paused, keeping her distance. "I am not going to take it from you," she replied. The room fell into a heavy silence, save for the sound of beetles tapping against the lightbulb. After a moment, she asked, "Did you go to school in the past?" I did not answer. She tried again, "What grade did you reach?" I bit my lip. "High school," I whispered. Mother Chau inhaled sharply, as if she had just heard something scandalous. "High school?" she repeated, testing the weight of the words. She was illiterate and often had to ask others to calculate her change at the market. In this impoverished village, a high school graduate was rarer than a motorbike. I expected her to say that high school didn't matter, as I was destined to be married off in this rural backwater anyway. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed, twisting the hem of her shirt. "That must have been very hard for you," she said. My nose stung and my throat constricted. No one had ever told me that. People only called me headstrong, a drain on their resources, insisting that it was useless for a girl to be educated. No one had ever acknowledged my struggle. I kept my head bowed over the bag for a long time before finally whispering, "My teacher said my marks were good. If I prepared, I could pass." Her eyes brightened. "Pass what?"

"University." When I uttered that word, my voice was barely audible, like the buzzing of a fly.

But she heard me. The sewing basket slipped from her hands, and a metal thimble rolled to my feet. She bent down to retrieve it, her fingers trembling. "University," she breathed. She looked up at me with an expression so complex it held astonishment, pity, and a profound, wordless respect. "That is a path to a great future," she said. I offered a bitter smile. "It is useless now."

"Why would it be useless?"

"I am already married." The words were a splinter in my chest. My family has already spent the dowry money; my mother will never let me go back to file the paperwork for the exam. The village would never allow a newly married woman to go off to study. Furthermore, studying requires books, time, and money.

Mother Chau did not answer immediately. She walked to the desk, turned the lamp up a notch, and looked back at me. "Trieu Thu, tell me the truth," she asked slowly. I looked up, guarded. "Do you still want to learn?" My heart raced. I dared not answer. I feared she was testing my loyalty, that if I nodded, she would hand my books over to her son, Dai Tru, to keep me under control. I had seen too many faces like that—tender at first, only to end with the same crushing sentiment: Women shouldn't dream of impossible things. Mother Chau saw through my fear. She did not push, simply placing the thimble back in her basket. "When I was young, I wanted to know how to read too," she said, looking out at the pitch-black mountains beyond the window. "My family was poor, and my father said that girls were just guests in their parents' homes; knowing how to write their own name was enough. I never even stepped through a school gate. After I married and gave birth to Dai Tru, my whole life was confined to the corner of the hearth and the fields." She smiled, a bitter, hollow expression. "I don't know what a university looks like, or what happens when you pass that test. But I know that when a person has a path in their heart and someone yanks them backward, the taste of that bitterness is unbearable." My throat tightened. Mother Chau stood up. "Go to sleep," she said. As she reached the door, she paused. "Stop hiding your books. If you want to study, then study. I will cover the electricity costs." The door clicked shut. I sat there in a daze for a long time. The light spilled over the old pages, and the faded mathematical formulas became clear once more. I ran my hand over the corner of the book, and tears streamed down my face. They were not tears of despair; they were the sensation of someone dying of frostbite suddenly touching a spark of warmth. The next morning, Mother Chau called me to the kitchen. On the table sat two sweet potatoes, a bowl of vegetable soup, and a rechargeable lantern, wiped clean. She told me, "If you want to study during the day, stay in your room. Housework can wait." I stared at her, bewildered. "You aren't forcing me to work the fields?" Mother Chau pressed a potato into my hand. "These hands of yours were meant to hold a pen." I looked down at my hands, at the faint, lingering scar from the time my notebooks were burned so long ago.