Chapter 8 — Betrayed by My Own Mother, Saved by My Mother-in-Law

Mother Chau always worried that I might ruin my eyesight, so she would meticulously tidy the area around my desk. Though she was illiterate, she had learned to observe the subtle signs of my struggle, noticing precisely when I would furrow my brows or begin to gnaw on the end of my pen. Whenever she saw me pause in frustration, she would quietly bring in a cup of warm water, whispering, "Drink a sip to clear your mind, child." Trieu Dai Tru was far more clumsy. He lacked the capacity to tutor me, so instead, he threw himself into manual labor—chopping firewood, gathering feed for the pigs, and taking on odd jobs to earn extra money—all to ensure I would have enough to stay warm through the freezing nights. One midnight, as I stepped outside to empty a basin of water, I spotted him hunched over in the moonlight, desperately patching a torn tarp over the shed roof, his hands raw and reddened by the biting cold. "Are you not tired?" I asked softly. He jumped, nearly snapping the wire he was holding. "Not tired," he stammered.

"You spend the whole day doing manual labor, and you spend your nights cleaning up around here. How could you not be exhausted?"

He scratched his head, looking bashful. "If you can stay up all night studying, then my little bit of physical work is nothing worth mentioning." I looked at him, not knowing how to respond. A moment later, he muttered, "Trieu Thu, I know you never wanted to marry me. Please, do not worry; I will not stand in your way. If you truly pass your examinations, what you do and where you go is entirely up to you." My heart felt as though it had been touched by a gentle hand. "Are you not afraid of what others will say about you?"

"Let them talk." He cast a fleeting glance at me before looking down at his feet. "My mother always said that one must have a conscience. You were deceived by your own mother and brought here, and you have suffered enough. I cannot use a marriage certificate to shackle you to this life."

The night wind whistled with icy intensity, yet a sharp, stinging sensation bloomed at the bridge of my nose. "Trieu Dai Tru, you are not actually foolish at all." He stood frozen, his ears turning a deep, vivid shade of red. "I simply do not know how to express myself well," he replied.

"Not knowing how to use sweet words is far better than having a wicked heart."

He broke into a wide, honest grin, though he quickly stifled it, his humility so profound it felt heartbreaking. Preparing for the entrance exams was no simple feat. I had been away from books for far too long, and much of my knowledge had been buried under thick layers of dust. Mathematics was manageable, but Physics and Chemistry often left me completely stumped. Every time Teacher Diep came over to teach, she would lecture until her voice grew hoarse. She would insist, "You cannot simply learn by rote; you must learn to think for yourself." I broke out in a cold sweat, protesting, "But I do not have enough time."

"The more anxious you are, the more you will fail." She set her pen down and looked at me steadily. "The university entrance exam does not just test who is the smartest; it tests one’s character and resilience. You must keep your heart steady."

Keep my heart steady. It was easy to say. Yet every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother’s sneer. She had told me that without my household registration, I would be blocked at every turn no matter where I went. I was terrified that I would exhaust every ounce of my strength, only to be stopped cold by a piece of bureaucratic paper. Mother Chau seemed to see through my soul. One evening, as she sat mending the soles of shoes beside me, she suddenly asked, "When you were young, did your biological mother ever truly love you?" The pen in my hand stopped moving. "I suppose she did, once." But as I searched my memories, I could only recall her weeping over my younger brother when he had a high fever, or the time I brought home an honor student certificate, only for her to ask if that paper could be traded for a bag of rice. Mother Chau did not press further; she simply continued her work with the needle. "One cannot choose where they are born. But in the future, when deciding who to keep close, you must use your own heart to weigh their worth." I whispered, "Sometimes, I hate her so much."

"Hatred is only natural," she said, flipping the shoe sole over. "But do not let that hatred lock you in a cage. You are studying to escape this place, not to spite her, but to live a life worthy of a human being."

I nodded, yet my chest remained tight with anxiety. At the beginning of April, Teacher Diep brought news: "The registration deadline is set; the applications must be submitted by the end of the month." My palms were slick with sweat. "What about the household transfer documents from my family?" Teacher Diep replied, "I have already asked the former principal of your old high school in the town to look into it. Your graduation records are still there. If we can obtain the graduation certificate, combined with a letter of character reference from our local commune committee, the education department might make an exception and process it for you." Mother Chau immediately asked, "Where is this principal?"

"At the high school in town."

Dai Tru spoke up instantly: "I will go." Teacher Diep looked at him skeptically. "They may not be willing to release the records to you. It would be best if Trieu Thu went herself." I was stunned. Since the day I arrived as a daughter-in-law in the Trieu family, I had never stepped foot outside this village. Mother Chau did not hesitate for a moment. "Go." I looked at her, worried. "The villagers will gossip." Mother Chau laughed, "They have nothing better to do than gossip all day, and I have yet to see anyone grow rich from wagging their tongues." Dai Tru added, "I will take you." I intended to refuse, but considering the long, arduous journey, I nodded in agreement.

Before the sun had fully risen, Dai Tru and I set off. He had borrowed a dilapidated motorcycle; its seat was shredded, and its engine rattled with a harsh, uneven roar. He instructed me, "Sit behind me. The road is very rough, so hold on tight." I climbed onto the bike, unsure of where to place my hands. His back felt stiff and tense. "Just hold onto my shirt," he said. The mountain road was full of deep ruts and potholes, and the bike jolted violently beneath us. I had no choice but to grip the fabric of his shirt tightly. His shirt was faded from years of washing, yet it was impeccably clean, carrying the faint scent of laundry soap mingled with the smell of dried grass. We spoke very little for the duration of the journey. By the time we reached the town, the sun was high in the sky. The gates of the high school were chipped and peeling, and students could be seen jogging across the track. I stood outside the gate, tears brimming in my eyes. This was not my original school, but like every other school, it held the scent of chalk dust, the sound of rhythmic recitation, and the very place I had longed to return to in my dreams.