Chapter 29 — Betrayed by My Own Mother, Saved by My Mother-in-Law

I know you are not sleeping. Neither am I. Lying on my familiar bed, I can clearly hear the clinking of Mother Chau busy preparing food in the kitchen. She is packing dried cakes, pickled vegetables, and two hard-boiled eggs for my journey. Outside in the yard, Dai Tru is laboriously fixing the handle of my wooden trunk. The rhythmic sound of hammering echoes through the stillness. That night, no one in the Trieu household truly closed their eyes. Before the sun rose, the first rooster crowed. Mother Chau entered my room to wake me. In her hands, she held a newly sewn bag. It was made of blue fabric, the stitching was coarse, but the straps were broad and sturdy, designed to hold both my books and my train ticket.

"Try it on."

I slung the bag over my shoulder. The straps bit into my skin—not heavy in weight, but burdened with the heavy weight of affection. Mother Chau gazed at me for a long time, then suddenly turned away. "It looks beautiful," she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. I stepped forward and embraced her from behind. "Mother," I whispered. She patted the back of my hand. "Yes," she replied. Outside, the rattling of wheels began. The village cart had arrived. With my bag on my shoulder and the wooden trunk in my arms, I walked out of the Trieu family gate. The area in front was crowded. Aunt Ma, Nhi Nha, Teacher Diep, the village head, and even those who once gossiped and ridiculed me were now there, pressing crumpled bills, hard-boiled eggs, and granulated sugar into my hands. The morning was still dim, and the Hanh Hoa hamlet was blanketed in a thin mist. I thought I could hold back my tears, but little Nhi Nha suddenly sprinted over and clung tightly to my legs. "Big Sister Trieu Thu, please remember to come back and teach me how to write essays." I crouched down and hugged her. "I will come back." She clutched a math textbook to her chest. "I will wait for you." As I stood up to board the cart, a figure came sprinting from the edge of the village. It was Lam Dieu To. He was panting heavily, his hand gripping a letter tightly. "Sister!" Everyone turned to look at him. He stopped in front of me, his forehead drenched in sweat from running through the night. "Mother told me to bring this to you." I did not take it immediately. "What else did she say?" Dieu To looked down at the ground. "Mother said... the road is long, do not travel on an empty stomach." He pressed the letter and a warm hard-boiled egg into my hand. The egg still held the heat of the stove. I looked at it for a long moment. Dieu To’s voice softened. "Sister, I was a wretched person before." As if fearing I wouldn't believe him, he gritted his teeth and added, "From now on, I will plow the fields and earn my own money." I accepted the egg and the letter. "Then do your best to live a decent life." He nodded, turned, and ran until he vanished. I watched his retreating figure fade into the mist, my heart a tangle of conflicting emotions. The cart began to roll slowly. Mother Chau sat beside me, and Dai Tru followed behind on his motorcycle. The dirt road of Hanh Hoa hamlet slowly receded. I hugged the wooden trunk tight, my hand clutching the ticket. I knew that from this moment on, I was truly stepping out of this secluded valley. But I did not yet know that in that magnificent city, waiting for me was not just the university gates, but a fierce test of my background, my future marriage, and my very own pride.

The county bus station was much larger and busier than the one in the town. Beneath the wide roof, a throng of people hurried about—some carrying heavy loads, others dragging suitcases, mothers cradling their children, and groups of workers in blue uniforms preparing for long-distance travel. Here and there, I spotted a few students around my age, fountain pens tucked into their breast pockets, clutching their university admission letters with an air of unhidden triumph. I looked down at my own canvas bag and the scuffed, wooden trunk. The edges of the trunk were jagged, and the handle that Dai Tru had spent hours reinforcing looked makeshift. Inside were a tattered quilt, a few worn outfits, some books, documents, and the dried cakes Mother Chau had tucked in. Mother Chau also saw those fresh-faced students. Instinctively, she reached out to smooth my collar, straightening my faded blue jacket.

"You are no less than any of them."

I smiled and nodded. "Yes, Mother." Dai Tru parked his old motorcycle in a corner and trotted off to find hot water. His knee was still sore, and he walked with a slight limp. Seeing his back, I wanted to call out for him to slow down, but I held my tongue. Mother Chau sat beside me and pulled the two boiled eggs from her bag—one she had boiled at dawn, and the other my birth mother had sent via Lam Dieu To. She peeled them clean and handed both to me. "Eat." I took one and pushed the other back into her hand. "You eat, Mother."

"I am not hungry."

"You have only had half a bowl of porridge all morning."

She glared at me. "Are you already trying to lecture your mother before you have even stepped into university?" I forced the egg into her hand. "If you do not eat, I will starve myself too." Mother Chau looked at me for a long time, sighed, and broke the egg in half. "Then we shall each have half." She pressed the piece with the larger yolk into my palm. I knew her little trick, but I said nothing. While waiting for the bus, Teacher Diep handed me a piece of paper. On it, she had clearly written the address of the Provincial Pedagogical University, the enrollment procedures, and a few final pieces of advice she had taken the time to add: "Once you arrive, the first thing to do is find the orientation desk for new students. Do not follow strangers under any circumstances. Hand your documents directly to the teachers; do not entrust them to anyone who just happens to look like a student." I nodded. "I will remember, Teacher."