Chapter 31 — Betrayed by My Own Mother, Saved by My Mother-in-Law

She flipped through the verification document, her gaze lingering for a few seconds before she looked up. "You have had a long, exhausting journey." Those four simple words were enough to make my nose sting with sudden emotion. "No, it was not exhausting at all," I managed to reply. She beckoned to a tall female student nearby. "Please take Lam Trieu Thu to the campus and help her get settled in the dormitory." The girl reached out to take my heavy wooden trunk. "Let me help you carry that." I reflexively snatched it back. "No, thank you, I can manage it myself." She laughed lightly, undeterred. "We are classmates now; there is no need for such formalities."

Classmates. The word alone made my heart race with excitement. On the way to the school, the bus wove through wide, bustling avenues. I stared out the window in awe, marveling at the towering bookstores, the grand post offices, and the students in crisp, snow-white shirts pedaling their bicycles past us. Hanging over the gate of the Teachers’ College was a vibrant red banner: WELCOME TO THE FRESHMEN OF CLASS 78. I stood before the iron gates, looking up at those words. To stand here, I had traded far too much blood and too many tears. I thought of the coerced marriage, the times I had knelt in the mud begging for mercy, the flickering oil lamp by the cattle shed, the grueling county exams, the social welfare verification papers, and the ration coupons I had fought so hard to obtain through the pouring rain. Every step of the way, there were those who sought to obstruct me, yet there were also those who had offered their own bodies as stepping stones to lift me up. Crossing that threshold into the university, I whispered to myself: "Mother, I have finally arrived."

Registering, receiving my student ID, and finalizing the dormitory arrangements took until dusk. The dormitory was on the second floor, a room fitted with eight bunk beds, iron frames, wooden desks, and shelves for washing basins. A few girls had arrived earlier and were huddled in small groups, chatting away. When I entered, laboring under the weight of my wooden trunk, they fell silent. A girl with short hair spoke up eagerly: "Are you sleeping on the top or bottom bunk?" I checked my assignment slip. "The bottom one." She helped me slide the trunk under the frame. "I am Tran Que Phan, I worked at the textile mill before getting in." Another girl, wearing thick spectacles, added, "I am Bach Tue, I am from the city." I introduced myself with hesitation: "I am Lam Trieu Thu, from Apricot Blossom Village."

Bach Tue glanced at my hands. They were covered in calluses from years of farm work, and the fabric bag I carried was patched in countless places. Yet, she showed no hint of disdain, offering only a gentle smile. "Let’s look out for one another from now on." I breathed a sigh of relief. That night, before the lights went out, I pulled pen and paper from my bag to write my first letter since arriving. Mother, Dai Tru, Teacher Diep: I have arrived at the Teachers’ College safely. The school is massive, the dormitories are spacious, and the teachers and friends are incredibly kind. I have submitted my ration books and received my ID card. I have tucked the sewing needle you gave me right under my pillow. Do not worry about me; I will study hard. I paused there, deep in thought, before carefully adding one final line: Mother, I have never looked back, but I will never forget the road I traveled to get here.

I folded the letter and hid it beneath my pillow, intending to mail it in the morning. The lights flickered off, and the dim glow of streetlamps cast pale, ghostly streaks through the window. Lying on this strange bed, I listened to the rustling of my new roommates turning in their sleep. There were no roosters crowing here, no scent of the pigsty, no sound of firewood crackling in the stove. I had truly escaped. But just as my eyes grew heavy, the girl in the adjacent bed, Bach Tue, whispered into the darkness: "Lam Trieu Thu, are you married?"

The entire room went deathly silent. My hands tightened under the blanket. I knew that the first trial in this shimmering, sophisticated city had officially begun.

The silence that followed Bach Tue's question was absolute. I lay on the bottom bunk, my fingers gripping the corner of the rough blanket. Outside, the streetlights cast long, faint shadows of window bars across the peeling plaster of the wall. Before I could answer, Bach Tue pressed again: "Did you... are you really married?" Her voice lacked any trace of malice, yet it functioned like a key turning in a lock, forcing open the secret chest I had struggled so hard to keep hidden. From the opposite bunk, another voice whispered a soft warning: "Stop it, Bach Tue, leave her be; she needs to sleep." Bach Tue stammered, "I... I just happened to see 'married' listed as your status in the registration file, so I was curious. I meant no harm."

I sat up abruptly and threw my thin jacket over my shoulders. Eight pairs of eyes in the room fixed upon me. My throat tightened, but I answered with clear, steady resolve: "Yes, I am married." Tran Que Phan, the girl with the short hair on the top bunk, sat up as well. "So, does your husband actually agree to let you attend university?" I nodded. "He agrees." Bach Tue seemed relieved, yet her curiosity remained. "What about his family? People in the countryside usually do not allow their daughters-in-law to leave for school, do they?" I involuntarily recalled the image of Mother Chau standing by the pigpen, leading out a pitch-black breeding pig. I remembered her slamming a wad of small bills onto the table and declaring firmly: "Study." I spoke softly: "The only reason I am sitting here today is because my mother-in-law broke her own back to provide for me."