Chapter 33 — Betrayed by My Own Mother, Saved by My Mother-in-Law

The afternoon was spent collecting our new textbooks. Stacks of freshly printed books sat piled high on the lectern, filling the air with the sharp, crisp scent of ink. Lugging the heavy bundle, my arms ached with the weight, yet that very burden provided a strange sense of grounding. On the path back to the dormitory, a few male students brushed past us. One of them shot a glance my way and muttered under his breath, "Heard the Literature class has a sister who’s already hitched. Her husband’s still stuck back in the countryside, tied to the tail of a water buffalo." His companion let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Then what on earth is she doing at university? Trying to broaden her horizons, or just looking for a way out?" Their voices were loud enough that I couldn’t possibly miss the slight. Tran Que Phan stopped dead in her tracks, spinning around. "Who exactly are you gossiping about?" The boy, clearly caught off guard by her fiery retort, looked flustered. "We were just talking, no need to get worked up." I reached out to pull Que Phan back. "Let it go, let’s keep moving." She looked at me, frustrated. "Are you just going to let them get away with that?" I stared directly at the two boys, my voice steady. "If you have questions, ask them to my face. Backstabbing like cowards isn’t very becoming for people supposedly pursuing higher education." The pair went quiet, their faces ashen, before they hurried away. Que Phan let out a burst of laughter. "Lam Trieu Thu, you look so gentle, but you’ve certainly got a sharp tongue." I smiled faintly. "It’s a skill I picked up back in the village."

That evening, I stopped by the campus post office. Before sending my letter to Mother Chau, I sat down to write another. I wrote of my roommate, my professors, the crisp pages of my new books, and even the rumors that had begun to swirl about my marriage. After a moment’s reflection, I decided against sharing the unpleasantries. Instead, I wrote: Mother, I am not afraid of what people ask. The path that led me here was honest and righteous; I have nothing to hide. As I tucked the letter into the green slot of the mailbox, my hand trembled slightly. From the city back to Apricot Blossom Village, it would take several days for this paper to travel. Yet, I knew exactly what would happen the moment Mother Chau received it. She would hurry over to have Teacher Diep read it aloud. She would sit huddled on the wooden folding chair in her kitchen, and upon hearing the words "I am not afraid," she would surely wipe away tears even as she smiled.

Returning to the dormitory that night, I found a strange girl standing outside our door with her arms crossed. She wore a wool coat that signaled she came from an official’s family, her hair styled in neat, voluminous waves, and she clutched a class roster in her hand. "Which one of you is Lam Trieu Thu?" I stopped walking. "That’s me." She scanned me from head to toe. "The class is electing student representatives, and Professor Ha has asked for volunteers. With your… complicated family situation, you would do well not to interfere, unless you want to invite trouble during the background verification process later." Que Phan poked her head out from the room. "Who are you to be giving orders?" The girl replied coldly, "I am the interim monitor, tasked by the professor to compile these files." I looked at the list in her hand, and my heart sank. It had only been two days since classes began, and already a new obstacle stood in my path.

The girl’s name was Luong Mai, the daughter of a prominent official in the province. In class, she was sharp-tongued and resourceful, having already made dozens of acquaintances in just forty-eight hours. Standing there at our dormitory door, dismissing me with a comment about my "complicated family situation," Luong Mai acted as if she were offering a kind piece of advice. But I understood the subtext immediately. She wasn’t worried about my background check. She was terrified that I might compete for a position on the class committee. I looked her in the eye. "Did Professor Ha personally tell you that I shouldn’t run?" Luong Mai faltered. "The professor wouldn’t say it so bluntly, of course. I’m just looking out for your best interests." I held her gaze firmly. "Then I thank you for your concern. But whether I run or not is a decision I will make for myself." Her expression turned icy. "You’ve barely arrived at this school; I suggest you learn your place and act accordingly."

Que Phan stepped out, throwing a towel over her shoulder. "Knowing one’s place means focusing on studies, not bowing your head for others to step on. This is a class committee, not a ration card handout—what right do you have to tell her she can’t register?" Luong Mai gave a thin, dismissive smile. "I was only offering a reminder. Don’t judge a person’s intentions by the measure of your own small mind." With that, she turned on her heel and walked away. As the door closed, Vuong Ai Cam sighed, clicking her tongue. "Her family has influence, and she’s quite silver-tongued. Half the class already listens to her." Bach Tue, sitting by her desk, indifferently turned a page of her book. "Who knows if she’s truly malicious? She just has a habit of trying to arrange other people's lives." I silently placed my books on my bed. That observation stirred a painful memory of my own mother. She, too, had used the guise of "doing what’s best for you" to force me into a marriage that defined my entire life. I would not allow anyone to dictate my path ever again. The following day, during the class meeting, Professor Ha asked for candidates. Luong Mai was the first to leap up, speaking at length about how well she understood the city and how much she longed to "serve" her classmates, while lecturing us on how Literature students needed organizational discipline. A roar of applause followed. A few boys stood up to run as well. I sat in the very last row, my palms damp with sweat.