Chapter 12 — Eighteen People, One Meal, One Divorce

"Then we won't go back anymore. Tomorrow we'll find a lawyer and ask everything clearly."

“How to get a divorce, how to divide assets, how to get your salary card back, everything must be understood in advance.

Once you understand, then consider the next step, don't let people lead you by the nose." I paused for a moment and asked softly, "Tomorrow, tomorrow is the first day, which lawyer is working?" My mother stood next to me and reminded me, her voice still hoarse from unresolved emotions.

“Then on the seventh day, wait for them to work and then go. These days, I'm looking for a friend who works in law.

He doesn't specialize in marriage, but he definitely has someone he knows, so let me ask him clearly."

“You guys are young, you have to be decent when looking for a lawyer, don't let people believe everything they say.

This matter must be done neatly, without leaving any problems later." He spoke step by step, so clearly that I suddenly stood silent. The father I always thought was quiet, turned out to be the one who stood firmest when I needed him.

“Dad… thank you.” I said, my throat tight.

“No need to thank me, this is the right thing to do, you are my daughter.” he replied, his voice very light.

“Go, cook the dumplings first, eat hot to warm up when it's cold, and just ignore what's happening outside.

Eat when you eat, sleep when you sleep, no matter how noisy it is outside, your house must still be peaceful." My mother went back to the kitchen to boil water, I followed behind to help her, the pot of water that had just been turned off boiled again, white steam fogged up the glass door. I raised my hand and drew a line on the layer of mist. I looked outside and saw the fireworks exploding again, red paper flying up and falling like a short rain.

“You spoke so well just now, each sentence was clear, so they couldn't argue.” My mother said as she dropped dumplings.

“Knowing that, in the past, I should have let you talk more, to avoid letting them dominate you.”

“In the past, I was afraid, afraid that they wouldn't be happy, afraid that they would say I didn't know what to do.

And now, what I fear is different.”

“I looked at the boiling pot of dumplings, each one rising and then sinking, slowly like a breath.

"I'm afraid my whole life will be like that, afraid that one day I'll look back and find myself knowing how to cook, wash dishes, and clean."

"I'm afraid that by then, people won't even remember my name, they'll just remember me as 'someone's daughter-in-law'.

Living like that is not living, but gradually disappearing.” My mother sighed very softly, her hands still wrapping the cake but her eyes softened.

"I'm also afraid, afraid that you'll suffer a loss, afraid that you'll get sick and no one will take care of you."

“So from now on, don't be afraid anymore, just keep walking forward, with your parents behind you.

This door is always open, whoever dares to tell you, I will not leave it alone.” After she finished speaking, she remembered something and turned to instruct him.

"Don't open your phone right away. Look at it after you eat. It's probably full of messages from them."

I nodded, put my phone in the drawer, and let everything be temporarily silent. Let yourself have a rare moment of peace. The dumplings are cooked, the aroma spreads, the TV starts a program to welcome Tet, the stage is bright red, and laughter is bustling. I picked up the bowl and sat down on the sofa, took a bite, the meat and cabbage were hot, the sweet water poured out. Suddenly I understood, this is the taste of Tet, not the smell of grease, not the smell of dishwashing liquid. It's the warmth, the sound of loved ones, the feeling of being able to sit down without having to worry about anything. After eating the third one, my mother suddenly asked: "Where is the marriage certificate? I saw your pockets were very tight." I paused for a second and then replied: "In my bag, I took my book." I put down the bowl, went into the room to get my bag and scissors locked, took out the small red book and placed it on the tea table. The three words "Marriage Certificate" shine under the light, quietly but dazzlingly. My mother reached out to touch and then withdrew her voice slowly.

"Let's leave it there first, wait for the lawyer to explain clearly and then calculate. If you want to have this thing, it's easy, but if you want to give it up, you have to think carefully."

I nodded, "I know", and my father turned the page inside, looking at the photo of the registration date. In the photo, I'm wearing a cream-colored shirt, my hair tied up, my smile still immature, as if I've never known what tiredness is. Trieu Khai was wearing a black life jacket, his face was reddened by the cold wind, his smile was somewhat forced, like he wasn't even sure he was happy. That day when I walked out of the Civil Affairs Bureau, he gently squeezed my cheek, smiled and said that from now on you are Mrs. Trieu, the words sounded like a promise. At that time, I still found it sweet and believed that a title could keep a lifetime of peace, as if just calling each other "husband and wife" would make everything okay. And now, the edge of the photo has curled slightly, as if the sentiment had also quietly deformed over time. My father glanced briefly and didn't say anything, just put the small red book back on the tea table, his movements were light but decisive.

“Eat your food, stop looking at those things, looking at them too much will only make you more upset.”

I sat back down on the sofa and continued to eat the dumplings, each bite slowly, as if wanting to retain this rare warm feeling a little longer. This meal, my whole family ate very slowly, no one mentioned what had just happened in the hallway, as if it had been closed outside the door. On TV, the host was still saying good wishes, outside the window, the sound of firecrackers was sporadic, irregular and echoed far and wide. At that moment, time seemed to solidify, become heavier, held back by a bowl of hot steamed dumplings, preventing it from passing away. After eating, it was almost noon. I washed the dishes and wiped the table, each movement neat and tidy as if it were an ingrained habit. My mother finished cleaning the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, looked in, and asked in a gentle voice what she wanted for lunch.

"There's still fish in the cupboard, two pieces of meat left, let's make a few more dishes."

I shook my head, "Just eat dumplings for lunch, cook more for dinner, don't make yourself tired today." She smiled, her eyes softened.

“I know I love my mother, so listen to me.”

She wiped her hands and then went to the balcony to take care of some potted orchids, and I returned to the room, closed the door, and sat down on the edge of the bed.