Chapter 11 — Medicinal Garden After Hospital

In the days after the research team's survey, Quyen spent most of her free time continuing to read more carefully each page of her mother's notebooks, not only to learn the medicine, but also with the hope of learning more about people and the secret thoughts that her mother had never shared during her lifetime. The more she read, the more she realized that those notebooks were not simply records of medical techniques, but also contained brief confessions and thoughts of a woman who had devoted her entire life to the medical profession.

One evening, while flipping through the oldest notebook, dating back more than twenty years ago, Quyen discovered a strange note, unlike the pages about regular remedies. Her mother's handwriting, although somewhat blurred over time, was still clearly readable, each word filled with emotion.

"Today, I refused the offer to move to the provincial hospital to work, even though the salary was three times the current salary. Perhaps, people will think I'm foolish, but I know, if I leave, who will continue to take care of the people here, who cannot afford to go far for medical treatment? I just hope that in the future, when my daughter grows up, she will understand why her mother chose to stay in such a poor place, instead of looking for opportunities. better for yourself."

Reading this, Quyen couldn't help but feel emotional. She never knew that her mother had the opportunity to leave Yen Son to go to a place with better living conditions, but she chose to stay, choosing to sacrifice her personal benefits to continue to be attached to this poor land. That silent sacrifice made her understand more deeply the true meaning of the work her mother has pursued all her life.

She continued to flip through and found many more similar notes, telling about the difficulties her mother went through in the first years of building the garden - from having to travel up to the high mountains to find rare plants, to facing skepticism and even ridicule from some people who thought traditional medicine was just outdated superstitions.

Reading another paragraph, Quyen suddenly stopped when she saw her father's name mentioned. "Today, Thanh argued with me again about spending too much time in the medicinal garden and paying little attention to my family. He was partly right, but I couldn't help it. Every time I see a patient being cured, I see that is the reason I exist in this world."

Those words made Quyen understand more about the silent conflicts her parents experienced, things that when she was young, she was completely unaware. She wondered if this was one of the reasons why her father, after her mother's death, became so distant from the garden — not only because of grief, but also because of years of complex, pent-up emotions that had never been released.

The next night, Quyen decided to bring that notebook to her father, wanting to talk frankly with him about what she had just read. Mr. Thanh, when he saw his wife's familiar words, couldn't help but feel emotional, his eyes filled with tears.

"Are you angry at mom, dad, for spending too much time on work, instead of family?" Quyen asked, her voice cautious, afraid of touching the pain still hidden in her father's heart.

Mr. Thanh pondered for a long time before answering. "There were times when I really felt sorry for myself, felt like I was an extra in my own house," he admitted, his voice low and full of sincerity. "But over time, I gradually understood that was who your mother was — someone who always put responsibility to the community first. I love your mother for that person, even though sometimes it makes me feel lonely."

"So why, after mother died, did father not want to step foot in the garden anymore?" Quyen continued asking, her eyes filled with sincere concern.

Mr. Thanh sighed, his eyes looked far away toward the window, where the silhouette of the garden could be seen in the dark. "I'm afraid, every time I step in there, I have to face the feeling that maybe, if I had supported your mother more that day, complained less, maybe she would have had more time to rest, her health wouldn't have deteriorated so quickly," he said, his voice choked with torment. "Dad always carries a feeling of guilt in his heart, even though he knows that maybe it's not entirely true."

That confession made Quyen feel sad. She realized that not only herself, but also her father were carrying in their hearts the unhealed wounds and silent torments for more than a year that they had never had a chance to confide and share with anyone.

"Dad, I think, mom wouldn't want you to keep tormenting yourself like that," Quyen said, holding her father's hand tightly. "Mom was always proud of her family, of her father, of her children. Perhaps the best way to remember her is not to avoid the things associated with her, but to continue together what she worked so hard to build."

Mr. Thanh nodded, tears rolling down his austere face. That night, for the first time in more than a year, father and son sat down together, honestly shared the feelings and torments that they had both silently endured, and then together found the sympathy and healing that they both desperately needed.

"Dad still remembers, in the past, every time my mother came home late from picking medicine in the mountains, he would go to the end of the alley and wait. Although his mouth was grumbling, his heart was worried and restless," Mr. Thanh said, his voice suddenly becoming softer as he recalled old memories. "One time, my mother slipped and almost fell down a ravine. When she came home, her limbs were all scratched, but she still smiled and told her father that she had found the exact type of precious tree that the old lady in the village needed."

Quyen laughed at that vivid story, imagining the image of her brave and resilient mother amidst the dangerous mountains and forests. "I've never heard you tell this story before," she said, her eyes filled with amusement. "Do you remember anything else about Mom?"

Mr. Thanh smiled slightly, his eyes lit up as if reliving the beautiful years gone by. "Very much," he replied. "Let me tell you gradually, a little bit every night, okay? I think, that's also a way for me to learn how to face these memories again, instead of just avoiding them like I've been avoiding them all the time."

Quyen nodded, her heart filled with joy at the positive change in her father. She realized that finding her mother's notebooks not only helped her learn the medical profession, but also unintentionally became a connecting link, mending the father-daughter relationship that had become distant over the past year since the family lost the most important woman.

In the following days, as promised, every night Mr. Thanh spent a short time telling Quyen small stories about her mother, about memories that he had never had the opportunity to share before. Some days it's the story of the first time the two met at a highland market, other days it's the memory of the night Quyen was born in the pouring rain of the forest, when Mrs. Sen had just finished a difficult delivery for her neighbor and then went into labor right after.

These stories, although small and simple, help Quyen gradually piece together a more complete portrait of the mother she always loves and respects, but sometimes feels somewhat distant because she is always busy with work. She began to understand that her mother's love for her family was not less than her love for medicine, but was simply expressed in a different way, more silently, with less words.

From those conversations, Mr. Thanh gradually regained his confidence and began to proactively go to the garden to help Quyen more, no longer avoiding it like before. There were afternoons when father and son sat together on the porch of the warehouse, working and chatting. The sound of laughter rang out, breaking the quiet, sad atmosphere that had enveloped them for more than a year since Mrs. Sen passed away.

Watching her father gradually regain his smile and gradually find joy again in the garden that was once associated with so many memories, Quyen couldn't help but feel strangely warm in her heart. She realized that the journey to save her mother's legacy not only brought meaning to herself, or to the community, but also silently healed even the deepest wounds in her own small family, wounds that she never thought could be healed so completely.