Chapter 9 — It's Too Late, Doctor Vu

Two weeks had passed since Lam Nhi moved to a small apartment in Cau Giay. The expense book she once wrote hopeful lines on by the lake was now filled with crossed-out numbers, added and subtracted countless times during the nights she sat alone at the dining table after her children fell asleep. The independent life she once imagined would bring relief turned out to be more difficult than she imagined. The little savings she brought with her were dwindling at an alarming rate, having to cover rent, Mien's tuition at a new school, and countless other living expenses that she had never had to balance in detail down to every penny before.

She applied for nursing jobs at three other private hospitals in the city, bringing with her a solid professional degree and many years of practical experience. But the results were not as expected. The first interview at a general hospital in Dong Da district went smoothly until the interviewer asked about the reason for leaving Anh Duong International Hospital after many years of working.

"You worked as a personal assistant for Dr. Kha Dinh Vu for four years, right?" The interviewer, a middle-aged human resources manager, looked at the file with a questioning look. "That position is quite special, usually only for people with close relationships or special trust. Can you share more about the reason why you suddenly quit? We need to make sure there are no professional or ethical problems before recruiting."

Lam Nhi stiffened for a moment, unable to reveal the truth about the secret marital relationship, nor wanting to blatantly lie. She could only give a vague reason for wanting to change her working environment, making the interviewer suspicious. The interview ended with the promise to "contact you later", but Lam Nhi was sensitive enough to understand that opportunity was almost closed.

The second and third interviews were similar, with questions surrounding her previous "sensitive" job position, making Lam Nhi increasingly understand the bitter truth - five years of hiding her identity as the wife of a famous doctor, has now become a barrier that makes it difficult for her to prove her true professional capacity to new employers.

That night, after putting baby Mien to sleep, Lam Nhi sat and recalculated the expense book on the dining table, her face clearly showing fatigue under the pale yellow light. She opened the banking app, looked at her dwindling account balance, then sighed and closed the notebook.

The phone rang, it was a call from Bich Van.

"Nhi, have you found a job yet?" Bich Van asked, her voice worried.

"Not yet." Lam Nhi replied, trying to keep her voice calm. "But I'm okay, I'll find it. Maybe I'll take a job as a home nurse for a few elderly patients right now, while waiting for a better opportunity."

"Or let me ask Mr. Vu if I can—"

"Don't." Lam Nhi interrupted immediately, her voice became determined. "I don't want anything to do with him anymore, not even money. I want to stand on my own, Van. If I accept his help now, I'm afraid I'll soften my heart again, and return to what I just decided to leave."

Bich Van was silent for a moment, then spoke softly. "I understand. But don't try too hard, just call me if you have anything, don't be shy."

Hanging up the phone, Lam Nhi sat quietly looking out the dark window, the streetlights shining in, creating faint streaks of light on the floor. She thought about accepting some kind of compromise, perhaps just calling Dinh Vu, explaining the current difficulty, he would definitely be ready to assist immediately. But every time that thought appeared, she remembered the image of the strange woman coming out of his bedroom, and her steadfastness was strengthened once again.

The next morning, a small incident made the situation even more tense - baby Mien had a slight fever, perhaps because she had not had time to adapt to the new environment and the changing weather. Lam Nhi had to take time off from her scheduled fourth interview to stay home to take care of her child, once again losing the opportunity to find a job for which she had carefully prepared.

She sat beside the bed, placed a wet towel on her child's forehead, looked at the little face red with fever, her heart ached with pity. "Are you very tired?" She asked softly, stroking the child's hair.

"I miss my old home, mom." Little Mien whispered, her eyes half-closed. "I miss Dad. I miss having more toys in my room."

Lam Nhi felt choked up, not knowing how to respond to her child. She held her child in her arms, tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to flow, telling herself that this was just a temporary difficult period, and then everything would gradually stabilize.

In the afternoon, when baby Mien's fever subsided and fell asleep, Lam Nhi sat alone in the living room, opening her laptop to look for other job opportunities. She came across a job advertisement for a home care nursing position for a small community health center. The salary was not high but suitable for the current situation and did not require too much explanation about previous work history. She applied immediately, even though she couldn't help but feel sad when thinking about the gap between this position and the job she once held as a personal assistant for a top doctor.

A few days later, the community health center called to invite her for an interview. The manager there, a kind middle-aged woman, didn't care much about her previous work history but only asked about her skills in taking care of elderly patients and the ability to flex her time. Lam Nhi answered fluently, clearly showing her extensive experience, and was accepted at the first interview, even though the salary was only one-third of what she had received at Anh Duong Hospital. She didn't complain at all, just silently thanked herself for finally having a stable, albeit modest, job so she could take care of herself and her child without having to rely on anyone.

The new job requires her to travel to each patient's home to provide care, measure blood pressure, change bandages, and instruct on medication, familiar tasks but now done in a completely different context - no more modern rooms, no more state-of-the-art equipment, just simple small houses and lonely elderly patients in need of a dedicated caring hand. There were days when she had to wake up at five in the morning to take baby Mien to school before starting her first shift nearly ten kilometers from home, then rush back to pick up her child in the late afternoon. Her body was exhausted, but she never showed that exhaustion in front of her daughter.

That night, sitting alone at the dining table after cleaning everything up, Lam Nhi reopened the small box of memorabilia she brought with her from the villa — a few family photos, a simple wedding ring she took off but couldn't bear to throw away, and the diary she wrote in the first years of marriage. She flipped through each page, rereading the words filled with happiness and hope of a young girl who absolutely believes in love and her future.

She closed the diary, placed her hand on it for a long time, then told herself in a more determined voice than ever: "No matter how difficult it is, I will not go back. Not because I no longer love him, but because I need to prove to Mien that a woman can stand on her own two feet, without having to live in anyone's shadow."

She put the memento box in the closet, turned off the light, and entered the bedroom where her daughter was sleeping. Lying down next to her child, she looked up at the ceiling, listened to baby Mien's steady breathing, and told herself that even though the road ahead was still full of thorns, she would still persevere, step by step, to build a new life for both mother and child — a life that no longer had to be hidden or waited for anyone.

In the darkness, the light from the phone screen suddenly shone on her face as she slid her finger through her contacts out of habit, then paused for exactly one second at the name she had personally blocked the number from the night she left the villa. Her finger hovered over the screen long enough that she herself was startled by that unreasonable hesitation — she had nothing left to say to him, nothing left to ask. She turned off the screen, placed the phone face down on the table next to the bed, turned her back to the uncurtained window, where the streetlight still quietly cast a dim streak of light on the wooden floor, just like last night, just like it would continue for countless more nights.