Chapter 6 — Justice Delayed

The evidence was complete, ranging from the forged letter of forgiveness signed on my behalf to the records of surreptitious financial transfers. It included the documentation of the makeshift prison cell established within a private nursing home, and, most damning of all, the video footage from the wedding scene that he had kept concealed for seven years. In that video, the car driven by Song Van Duong had clearly come to a full stop. After seeing my mother rush forward, she had hesitated for two seconds. Then, she had slammed her foot onto the accelerator.

Seven years ago, Bui Tu Xuyen had watched this video. He knew it was no accident. Yet, at that time, Song Van Duong had clung to his legs, weeping, and he had chosen to delete the original backup, leaving only the doctored version as a permanent record. Now, seven years later, he had personally initiated his own investigation. The Bui parents scrambled to leverage every connection they possessed, desperately begging Bui Tu Xuyen to halt his actions. His mother knelt before him, her face streaming with tears.

"Van Duong is already ruined," she wailed. "Do you truly intend to destroy the entire Bui family along with her?"

Bui Tu Xuyen looked down at her. "When Hua Tinh Dao was ruined, why did none of you shed a single tear?"

His mother had no response. His father flew into a rage, smashing furniture in the study, but within days, the entire scandal was laid bare. The Bui family’s construction of a private dungeon, the concealment of the truth regarding the hit-and-run, the embezzlement of victims' compensation funds, and the forgery of forgiveness documents—every revelation stripped away their remaining veneer of respectability. Song Van Duong was taken into custody. The Bui parents were hauled in for questioning regarding their obstruction of justice and the falsification of documents. The stock price of the Bui corporation plummeted, partners withdrew in droves, and Bui Tu Xuyen himself was suspended from his position pending a full investigation.

He offered no defense. When the police asked why he had waited so long to come forward, he sat in silence for a long time. Finally, he spoke, his voice hollow: "Because she is already dead. Because, in the end, I could no longer continue to deceive myself."

After his deposition, he went to the cemetery alone. Before my headstone, he placed a strawberry shortcake—the one I had loved most when my mind was trapped in the innocence of a seven-year-old. Every time I had asked for it, his mother would claim it was too sweet and bad for my health. But Bui Tu Xuyen finally realized that the attraction was never the cake itself; it was that my mother had bought it for me every birthday. I was not craving sugar; I was seeking a mother whose face I could barely remember but whom I desperately yearned to hold onto. He crouched before the grave and opened the box, his voice thick with raw, jagged emotion.

"Tinh Dao. This time, no one will take it away from you."

But though the cake sat there throughout the night, there was no one left to ask, with soft, cautious hope, "Brother Tu Xuyen, may I have a slice?"

On the day of Song Van Duong’s trial, the rain fell in a torrential downpour. She wore the stark, gray uniform of a detention center, her complexion deathly pale. The soft white dresses were gone, and there was no one left to wipe away her tears. As the video from seven years ago played in the courtroom, she remained bowed, trembling violently. In the footage, my mother held her arms wide to shield me, and the car had paused, only to move forward again. When the sickening sound of the impact echoed through the courtroom, the gallery fell into a deathly silence. Finally, Song Van Duong collapsed under the weight of the truth.

"I didn't want to kill her," she sobbed. "I only wanted to frighten Hua Tinh Dao. I didn't want him to marry her. I never expected her to rush out like that."

As she spoke, every gaze in the room shifted to Bui Tu Xuyen. He sat in the front row, his face drained of all color. Seven years ago, she had claimed the brakes had failed, and he had forced himself to believe her. But the truth was that I had been her target all along. If my mother had not pushed me out of the way, I would have been the one to die that day. When the judge questioned her about why she had smashed the urn containing my remains, she was silent for a long time before whispering, "I hated how she always held that urn. It was as if everyone owed her something. He had been with her for seven years—I just wanted her to stop using the dead to tether him to her."

Bui Tu Xuyen closed his eyes, the veins in his hands bulging. Song Van Duong looked at him as if he were her final lifeline. "Brother, please say something for me. I truly know I was wrong. I will never return to the Bui house, and I will never see you again. Please, save me."

Bui Tu Xuyen slowly opened his eyes. He looked at her, his voice barely a whisper. "Back then, did Tinh Dao not beg you as well? When she lay on the ground calling for her mother, did you think to save her? When she clung to her ashes and begged you to return them, did you ever stop? When she lay there waiting for an ambulance, did you ask the doctors to save her first?"

The last trace of blood drained from Song Van Duong’s face. Bui Tu Xuyen looked away. After the trial concluded, Song Van Duong was sentenced for cumulative crimes, including intentional infliction of injury resulting in death, desecration of remains, and the subsequent obstruction of justice. Years later, every staff member at the cemetery became familiar with Bui Tu Xuyen. He visited every single month, without fail, rain or shine.