Chapter 30 — Betrayed by My Own Mother, Saved by My Mother-in-Law

Teacher Diep looked at me and suddenly smiled. "Lam Trieu Thu, one day you are going to become an excellent teacher." My heart warmed at her words, though I replied, "I haven't even enrolled yet."

"You have already achieved it," she said, tilting her chin toward little Nhi Nha, who was clinging to the window frame to watch the passing vehicles. "You have shown that little girl that there is another path for a girl to take. That is worth more than ten lectures in a classroom."

Hearing her name, Nhi Nha trotted over. "Did you call me, Teacher Diep?" The teacher patted the child’s head. "Study hard, and don't you dare be lazy, do you hear me?" Nhi Nha puffed out her chest. "I am going to take the university entrance exam too, one day." Someone standing nearby overheard and laughed teasingly, "What a mouthy little brat." Nhi Nha spun around and snapped back, "If sister Trieu Thu can pass the exam, so can I!" The man was left speechless, slinking away in embarrassment. I looked at the girl, suddenly realizing that the road I was walking was no longer for myself alone.

The bus rolled into the station, kicking up clouds of dust. The ticket seller shouted until her voice turned raspy, "Passengers for the provincial line, board the bus! Have your tickets ready!" My heart leaped into my throat. Mother Chau gripped my hand tightly. Her palm was rough, covered in thick calluses—hands that had chopped water hyacinth, sliced sweet potatoes, tended the hearth, and sold the family’s only piglet, slamming a fistful of crumpled bills onto the table to buy me a chance at a different life.

"Trieu Thu."

"Mother."

Her lips trembled as if she had a thousand things to say, but in the end, she only breathed, "Do not be afraid." I nodded. Dai Tru thrust a thermos into my hands. "Take this to drink along the way."

"Yes."

"Let me carry your trunk." He hoisted the wooden crate and helped me squeeze onto the bus. It was packed, the aisle narrow and suffocating. He struggled to heave the trunk onto the overhead rack, bouncing a few times to ensure it wouldn't fall.

I sat by the window. He stood awkwardly in the aisle, his limbs restless, not knowing where to put them.

"Write to us when you arrive."

"I will."

"Don't skip meals."

"I know."

"At night, keep your money in your inner shirt pocket."

"I know."

Once he finished, he seemed at a loss for words. I looked at him. "Trieu Dai Tru, you must live well back home, too." He nodded. "I will take care of Mother."

"You must take care of yourself, too."

He froze, then nodded again. Down at the station platform, the conductor began to bark orders: "Family members, get off the bus immediately!" Dai Tru backed away flustered. Just as he reached the door, he looked back one more time. I called out, "Trieu Dai Tru." He stopped.

"Wait for my letter."

His eyes suddenly brightened. "I will."

He stepped off the bus. Mother Chau stood beneath the window, looking up at me. Through the grimy glass, I could not see the fine lines on her face, but I could see her eyes swimming with tears. She pressed a palm against the pane. I pressed mine to it as well. Separated by the glass, our palms met. The engine roared, making the bus body rattle violently. Mother Chau ran alongside the vehicle for a few steps. "Trieu Thu!" she cried out. I threw the window wide open, letting the cooling wind rush in. She pulled a small cloth bundle from her bodice and ran to shove it into my hand. "Take this!" I grabbed the bundle. The bus surged forward. Mother Chau’s voice was carried away by the wind: "Don't be too stingy to spend money on yourself!"

I looked down and opened the bundle. Inside were three hundred thousand dong and the brass thimble she had worn for years. The thimble was worn smooth at the edges. My tears finally broke through. This wasn't just money; this was a piece of her, a memento to comfort me. The bus turned out of the station. The figures of Mother Chau, Dai Tru, Teacher Diep, Nhi Nha, and the entirety of Hanh Hoa village began to shrink. I leaned against the window, watching until they vanished from sight.

A woman holding a child next to me handed me a tissue. "Little sister, wipe your eyes." I thanked her softly. She glanced at my bag containing my acceptance papers. "Heading off to university?"

"Yes."

"How wonderful," she said with a smile. "If my daughter could pass the university exam like you one day, I’d be smiling in my sleep."

I wiped my eyes dry. "She certainly will."

The journey was long and bumpy. The scenery outside shifted constantly—from rolling mountains to rice paddies, from sparse villages to dense rows of brick and tile factories. The provincial city grew closer with every mile. I hugged my backpack tight, stroking the papers inside. My acceptance letter was there. My food ration certificate was there. My ticket was there. The one million dong Mother had given me was there. And Mother Chau’s thimble was there too.

By dusk, the bus finally crawled into the central city station. A sea of people poured out. I shouldered my pack, gripped the wooden trunk, and stood lonely and adrift at a strange intersection. The city was a hundred times larger than our district town. Towering buildings scraped the sky, power lines wove like a tangled web, and the frantic chime of bicycle and motorbike bells made my head spin. I pulled out the scrap of paper where Teacher Diep had written the address to find the reception point for new students. Near the station, there was a wooden sign with bold letters: RECEPTION POINT FOR NEW STUDENTS OF THE PROVINCIAL UNIVERSITY OF EDUCATION.

Behind a wooden desk sat two students and a teacher. I approached and timidly handed over my acceptance letter. "Teacher, I am Lam Trieu Thu, here to register." The teacher accepted the file and looked up at me. "Coming all the way from Hanh Hoa village?"

"Yes, I am."