Chapter 32 — Betrayed by My Own Mother, Saved by My Mother-in-Law

The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. A girl named Wang Ai-Qin, occupying the upper bunk, leaned over the edge and peered down at me. "A mother-in-law supporting her daughter-in-law through university? You certainly are lucky." Lucky. The word felt hollow, drifting aimlessly in the stagnant air. My mind drifted back to that night—the night I was pushed into a bridal chamber adorned with glaring red 'Double Happiness' symbols, clutching a pair of scissors, my back pressed against the cold earthen wall, drowning in a sea of absolute despair. "In the beginning," I replied, my voice steady, "it was far from luck."

The others, sensing the gravity in my tone, stopped urging me to sleep. I began to tell them what I could—the truth. I spoke of how my own mother had tricked me into attending a feast, only for me to realize upon arrival that it was my own wedding. I spoke of how the Trieu family refused to force themselves upon me, and how Mother Chau, having stumbled upon me secretly clutching my schoolbooks, asked if I still harbored the desire to learn. I told them how she had sold the family’s only breeding sow to scramble together the funds for my entrance exam fees. I did not shed a tear. These memories had been buried deep within the soil of my heart for too long; now that they were laid bare, I felt a strange, chilling serenity.

Tran Que Phan climbed down from her bunk and sat closer to me. She had spent years working in a textile mill, and her hands were etched with deep, jagged calluses. "Back when I worked the night shift," she whispered, "I used to crawl into the machinery maintenance room just to study and solve problems. The factory was full of people mocking me, saying a factory girl had no business dreaming of university. But compared to you, I suppose I had it easy."

Bai Hui spoke up, her voice trembling slightly, "I am sorry for prying earlier. That was rude of me."

I shook my head. "It is fine. My marital status is clearly documented in my registration file; people were bound to ask eventually."

Bai Hui bit her lip. "But there are those in this school who live to gossip. Please, do not take them to heart."

I looked at her directly. "What exactly would they say?"

She hesitated, then murmured, "They say girls from the countryside have complicated backgrounds and unclear marital standings. Some even scoff, saying that if a woman is married, she should just stay home and bear children."

Tran Que Phan gave a sharp, mocking laugh. "Let the dogs bark if they wish. We entered these gates because of our marks, not our mouths."

I allowed a faint smile to touch my lips. Though faint, it was enough to lift the crushing stone that had been weighing down my chest. The lights had long since been extinguished when the dormitory supervisor paced down the hall, tapping on the doors. "Sleep, girls! There is a freshman orientation meeting tomorrow morning."

Finally, the room grew quiet as everyone settled into their beds. I crawled under my quilt, but sleep had vanished. The beds at the Teachers' College were harder than those at home, and the linens lacked the familiar scent of wood smoke. I reached under my pillow, withdrawing a brass thimble, clutching it tight until the textured surface bit into my palm, stinging just enough to ground me. I wondered: Is Mother asleep by now? Has Da-Tru’s knee bandage been changed? That flickering light outside the cow shed—is there anyone left to light it?

The following morning, the opening ceremony was held in the grand auditorium. A crimson banner hung across the entrance: WELCOME NEW STUDENTS. I sat among the students of the Literature Department, surrounded by faces entirely unknown to me. Some wore expensive woolen coats, others donned crisp, white shirts, and some even sported wristwatches. I looked down at my own faded blue jacket, the cuffs mended with clumsy, thick stitches by Mother Chau. The threads were jagged and uneven. Yet, I no longer felt inferior. Those stitches were the very threads that had paved the road for me to reach this place.

The Dean stood at the podium, declaring that the country hungered for talent and that the era would not treat those who persevered in their studies with indifference. My eyes grew hot with unshed tears. Gripping my pencil, I wrote four words on the first page of my notebook, pressing down firmly: STUDY WITH ALL HEART.

After the ceremony came the roll call. Our head teacher was a woman named Ha, over thirty, wearing black-rimmed spectacles and speaking with clipped, precise authority. When she called my name, she looked up, her gaze steady. "Lam Trieu-Thu."

"Present."

"You are from Hanh-Hoa hamlet, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Your case is quite unique, but your academic records are complete. Your marital status does not affect your enrollment. If you face any difficulties, come to the office to find me."

Her voice was not loud, but it was enough to draw every eye in the classroom toward me. I stood tall, feeling the weight of their scrutiny like needles pricking my spine. Professor Ha scanned the room. "I will be blunt. To sit here today, every one of you had to pass a grueling national selection exam. Background, age, and marital status are not excuses for anyone to belittle their classmates. The Literature Department trains intellectuals, not gossips with too much time on their hands."

The classroom fell into a profound hush. As I sat down, Tran Que Phan gave me a thumbs-up. Bai Hui slid a copy of the course schedule across the desk. "I had an extra one. You take it."

"Thank you," I whispered.

The schedule was packed tight with courses: Modern Vietnamese, Ancient Literature, Writing Skills, and Educational Psychology. Looking at those lines of text, my heart hammered against my ribs. This was no dream. I had truly, finally, stepped into the university lecture hall.