Chapter 35 — Betrayed by My Own Mother, Saved by My Mother-in-Law

Inside the communal washroom, hushed voices drifted through the air. "I heard that Lam Trieu Thu is already married. Her husband’s family even pays for her education, yet she still has the audacity to apply for financial aid. Is she trying to leech off the university?" Another voice chimed in, eager to agree: "People from the countryside always love to calculate and haggle over every penny." Carrying my basin of laundry, I froze at the entrance, the steady dripping of a leaky faucet filling the silence. I did not step inside. From within, Tran Que Phan’s voice snapped back with sharp intensity: "Her husband’s family had to sell their breeding sow just to afford her tuition, and she had to scrape together every last coin just to pay for the bus ticket here. University grants exist precisely to support students in need; if they don't give it to someone like her, who are they supposed to give it to?" The first girl scoffed dismissively: "Why are you getting so worked up?" Tran Que Phan retorted: "I just find it sickening to watch people with too much time on their hands obsessively picking apart someone else’s poverty."

I walked in, basin in hand. The two girls fell silent the moment they saw me. With a steady hand, I set my basin down and turned the faucet on full blast. As the white foam swirled in the basin, I spoke clearly: "I filed my financial aid application according to university regulations. If you feel it’s unfair, feel free to report it to the Student Affairs Office." No one dared to utter a word. I picked up my basin, turned my back on them, and walked out. Back in my room, I carefully filled out the aid application form again. Family income, the number of dependents in my husband’s household, the sale of the pig to fund my studies, the origin of my travel money—I listed every detail with meticulous honesty. When I reached the note section regarding "one million donated by my mother," I hesitated for a long while. In the end, I wrote it down. Not to seek pity, but because I had nothing left to hide.

That evening when I submitted the form, Professor Ha read it through, looked up, and asked, "Did you really have to be this detailed?" I nodded: "I don’t want people to think I am defrauding the university of its grants." Professor Ha set the paper down, her voice softening: "Lam Trieu Thu, sometimes poverty is not a sin, and seeking help is never wrong. You do not need to tear open every one of your scars for others to inspect." I was stunned. She continued gently: "The university provides this aid so students can study with peace of mind, not so they can compete to see who is the most miserable or tragic." My nose stung. Professor Ha picked up her pen and swiftly signed "Approved" on the form. "Go and rest now. Put all your energy into your studies."

Stepping out of the office, the night wind swept through the corridor windows. In that moment, I suddenly understood. Coming to this city was not just about fighting for a seat in a classroom; it was a journey toward learning how to never bow my head in shame because of where I came from.

A few days later, a reply arrived from the Apricot Blossom hamlet. The envelope bore shaky, crooked handwriting—Teacher Diep had written it on my mother's behalf. Mother said she had already memorized my letter after hearing it read aloud three times. She told me to eat well and not to worry about the expense. Dai Tru’s knee was healed, and he was back in the fields every day. Little Second Girl had borrowed my math textbook and even kept it under her pillow while she slept. Everyone in the village now nodded in agreement, saying that girls should study as much as they can. At the end of the letter, Mother added: Tell anyone who asks if you are married to stand tall, puff out your chest, and say: "I am." If they ask how your husband’s family could afford to send you to school, tell them: "My mother-in-law is generous, and my husband is not a petty man."

Holding the letter, I laughed and cried at the same time. My roommates crowded around to see. Tran Que Phan slapped the table and laughed out loud: "Your mother-in-law is truly bold." Bach Tue smiled: "Your husband is not a petty man—that’s a sentence fit for literature." I carefully tucked the letter into my book.

Yet, that very night, Luong Mai suddenly knocked on my door. Her face was deathly pale, having completely lost her usual cold, arrogant composure.

"Lam Trieu Thu, could you come with me to the Student Affairs Office?"

I jumped up: "What happened?" She bit her lip hard, and only after a long moment did she force out the words: "My parents back home have arranged an engagement for me. My fiance’s family is coming to the school tomorrow to take me back."

As Luong Mai spoke, her fingers dug deep into the door frame. She was usually impeccably groomed, but tonight, disheveled strands of hair hung limply over her cheeks. Tran Que Phan, who had been lying down, sat up abruptly: "But you’re a city girl, aren't you? How can they force an engagement on you?" Luong Mai’s expression turned grim: "City girls still have parents, don't they?" Bach Tue put down her book: "Are your parents forcing you to drop out?" Luong Mai nodded: "The boy’s family says that girls who go to university get delusional ideas and their heads get too big. They want me to return to the village to hold the wedding banquet first; they say we can 'discuss my studies' after we’re married." She let out a laugh—a bitter, jagged sound. "That so-called 'discussing my studies'—everyone knows exactly what that means."

I watched her silently, and the invisible wall between us suddenly shattered. So, the act of using "love" to dictate someone else’s life was not something confined to the corners of remote, impoverished villages. It crawled through the luxurious apartments of the city just as easily. The only differences were the phrasing used and the teacups set upon the negotiation table, but the invisible hands pressing down on a woman’s shoulders were just as cruel. I asked her directly: "So, do you want to go back?"