Chapter 21 — One month before the wedding, the doctor gave me a piece of paper

“Why don't you come out and talk to everyone?”

“I'm not good at occasions like this.”

“You can argue with someone for two hours in a courtroom.”

“But standing here for five minutes already makes you feel uncomfortable?”

“The courtroom has rules.”

“Not here.”

I took the cup of coffee from his hand. Exchange me a glass of orange juice.

“Drink this.”

“You drank too much coffee.”

He accepted the glass of orange juice.

“The outfit you wore today…”

I laughed.

“Are you going to call me beautiful again?”

He looked at me. Then calmly said:

“I was going to say you had one button on your shirt wrong.”

I bowed my head and looked down. Co Tham burst out laughing. I couldn't help but laugh too. Laughter mixed with conversation in the light-filled room. Outside the window. The city has been lit up for a long time. Two years ago. I stood under the streetlight. In his hand was a small, wrinkled piece of paper. I thought my life had hit rock bottom. But it turns out. There are endings that are not meant to close. It's to open a new path. Like that piece of paper. But enough to change a person's life. I bowed my head and looked down.

“...Can't you first compliment me on my beauty and then tell me I buttoned my shirt wrongly?”

“The buttons are askew.”

I turned around, my back facing the crowd, and frantically buttoned my shirt.

“Are you done yet?”

"Done."

He looked at me.

“Why do you keep calling my name today?”

“Because there is something I want to ask.”

“Do you still feel like you owe me now?”

I stopped.

“...What do you mean?”

“Everything.”

I thought for a moment.

“I don't see it anymore.”

“I already invited you to that meal.”

“After that, we invited more than a dozen more meals.”

“It's probably even.”

“That's good.”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because if you still feel like you owe me…”

He stopped for a moment.

“Then the next words you are about to say will lose their meaning.”

My heart suddenly beat a beat faster.

“What are you going to say?”

He put the glass of orange juice on the table. Then he took out a neatly folded piece of paper from his vest pocket. Give it to me. Inside there is only one line of text.

“This person can be married.”

The handwriting is not yours. It belongs to Lam Tri Vi. I raised my head. Saw Lam Tri Vi standing not far away. She raised her hand and made an "OK" gesture towards me. I looked at Co Tham again. He stood in front of me. There was a gentle smile in his eyes.

"It's what Doctor Lam said."

“It's not like you said it yourself.”

“Did you ask Dr. Lam to write you a note?”

“She actively writes.”

“I didn't ask.”

“You lied.”

“People who study Law do not lie.”

I looked at the words on the piece of paper. Look again at the person in front of you. Two years ago. A piece of paper pulled me out of a deception. And today. Another piece of paper pushed me towards a new beginning.

“Is that umbrella still available?”

“Can I see it?”

“What if I watch it and don't pay it back?”

“Don't pay.”

He laughed. The smile is very light.

“Then there's no need to pay anymore.”

Five years later. The community organization "Giay Nhah" has opened branches in twelve cities across the country. Each year supports more than two thousand cases. Promote amendments to three local-level legal regulations. In a national volunteer forum. I was invited to speak. Below the stands were more than five hundred people. The topic of my speech is:

“The power of a piece of paper.”

When finished.

“Five years ago, a doctor risked his job to put it in my hands a piece of paper during a premarital examination.”

“There is only one sentence on it.”

“But that sentence changed my life.”

“After that I met a lot of people.”

“An ex-wife provided evidence.”

“A young girl is ready to stand in court and testify.”

“A female reporter persistently pursues the truth.”

“A close friend didn't ask me why and immediately took me to the hospital.”

“A father threw a conman's carton of milk and cigarettes straight out the door.”

“A mother told me: doing the right thing is better than marrying the wrong person.”

“And there's another person.”

“He said I once lent him an umbrella.”

“So he wanted to pay me back with a lawsuit.”

Laughter rang out from the stands. I also laughed.

“But what I want to say is not gratitude.”

“What I want to say is…”

“Each of us can become the person who gives that piece of paper.”

“When you see your friend is with an untrustworthy person, do you dare to say it?”

“When you know your colleague is being abused, do you dare to intervene?”

“When you meet a stranger in danger, do you dare to reach out your hand?”

“Most of the time, what changes a person's destiny is not something earth-shattering.”

“It's just a piece of paper.”

“One sentence.”

“A choice.”

The applause lasted for a long time. After the lecture. Co Tham was waiting for me behind the scenes. Next to him is a little girl about two and a half years old. Her hair is tied up in two small ponytails. My daughter. My name is Co Niem.

“Mom! Mom!”

She extended her arms towards me. I sat down and picked up my baby.

“Be good.”

Co Tham helped me hold my coat.

“Very good speech.”

"Really?"

“But the last part about ‘a piece of paper’ is a bit long.”

“It could be shortened a bit.”

I looked at him.

“Can you learn to only say the first half of a sentence?”

"Cannot."

I laughed. He also laughed. The distance between us. From the umbrella of ten years ago. To the piece of paper from three years ago. Then came the current home. Actually, it's never been that far. The phone vibrates. It's a message from Lam Tri Vi. She sent a photo. In the photo is the newly built pre-marital examination lobby of the City Obstetrics Hospital. Right at the entrance hangs a large sign. On it is written:

“You have the right to know your future partner's health information. If you need assistance, please contact the hotline of the organization 'Gioi Nhah'.”

Attached is a message:

“Your piece of paper from that year is now posted all over the city.”

I held my daughter in my arms. Smiling softly. Co Tham wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I leaned my head on his shoulder.