Chapter 27 — Summer After the Rain

In the blue notebook, Linh's mother recorded the days after leaving An Binh. Her handwriting was hasty and shaky at first, but later became slower and slower, as if the writer had learned how to live with pain. She rented a room, worked two jobs at once to make enough money to support Linh's education, and every night she checked the door two or three times before daring to close her eyes, a habit she carried with her from the night of rising water that year. Linh used to think her mother was cold, but records show that she always wrote letters and then tore them up because she was afraid of being followed, afraid that an accidental note would put the whole family in danger again.

There is an unsent letter, the paper has turned yellow: "You may hate me, but please don't think I don't remember. I remember every time you coughed, every cake you didn't finish."

Linh reads in the projection room, where blue light covers her mother's handwriting. She didn't know how to forgive, there was no formula for it. Minh Bao forgiveness is not mandatory in the repair schedule, there is no fixed timeline for completion.

Mother said she sought legal counsel, but the file was returned with vague reasons. When her father passed away, she wanted to return immediately, but received news that Phuc was working on a theater project. She was afraid that her return would attract Linh's attention and be dragged into a war that she was not sure she could protect her daughter from.

Linh asked why she was returning now, after all these years of waiting and hiding. Mom replied because I chose to stay, and she didn't want to leave me alone in the midst of turmoil again, even if I had to face my old fears.

Mother and daughter hugged each other on the stairs, their tears mixed together, unable to tell whose belonged to them. Hau passed by, saw this and immediately turned away so as not to disturb her, but bumped into a "be careful with steps" sign standing at the corner of the stairs. The sound made them both laugh through their tears, a moment of lost but necessary humor amid heavy emotions.

Linh said her mother could stay in the room upstairs for as long as she wanted, there was no need to rush to make any decisions. Mom replied that she would only stay if she could help sell popcorn, and did not want to be a guest in her own house. Minh said it was a difficult position to fill, he needed to know how to handle the heat and endure Hau's jokes all day long.

Linh's mother officially rented the room upstairs that weekend. She brought two small suitcases, an old sewing machine and a pot of green rosemary. Linh asked why she didn't bring more, after all these years of living elsewhere. Mom said this time she wanted to leave room for things she could buy in An Binh, a clever way of saying she wanted to start afresh, without carrying too much baggage from the past.

Mother and son cleaned the old room all afternoon, dust flying in the sunlight through the window. On the wall are the pencil marks Linh used to measure height each year, the crooked horizontal lines of a growing child. There is a line that stops at the age of sixteen. Linh remembers that was the year she left, no one wrote more after that, as if time had frozen at that very moment.

“I don't know how big you are,” Mom said, her voice choking as she looked at the pencil lines.

“I don't know how mom lives either.”

They don't try to fill the gap with flowery promises. Mom cooked rice, Linh fixed the flickering light bulb, and then they both fought over the blanket because of the sudden cold rain at night. Those were so ordinary things that it hurt Linh, because she realized she had been longing for such ordinary moments for eighteen years without even realizing it.

In the afternoon, Linh's mother helped sell popcorn for the first time. She put too much butter in each bag, causing Hau to declare it an "emotional upgrade" of the familiar snack. Mrs. Nam said that if a customer has a stomach ache, you should explain it to them yourself, don't blame the new person. Linh's mother learned how to collect money, tear up tickets and ask customers if they wanted to sit near the door or near the screen, small questions that made her feel like she truly belonged here.

An old man recognized her and came forward and said he had seen her standing by the dike on a flood night. He didn't want to sign an official statement, but wanted to say it directly: she saved a little girl and then went back to find the others in the middle of the rushing water. Linh's mother bowed her head and told her to just do what anyone would do in that situation. He shook his head, saying not everyone came back when it was safe to leave.

Linh heard that sentence and did not turn her mother into a hero in her mind. She just recorded the story honestly, asking if he agreed to let Mai contact her to make an official record. He nodded, his eyes filled with relief as if he had just released something he had kept secret for too long.

Linh's mother started teaching filmmaking classes for children every weekend. She did not talk about complicated filming techniques, just made the children observe a place carefully before filming. Some filmed the old bridge, some filmed the trees along the river, some filmed Mrs. Nam's hand distributing popcorn to customers. At the end of the session, she asked the children what they had seen that they had previously overlooked in everyday life.

A boy replied: "I see Miss Linh always checking the door." Linh stood outside the door and heard it, laughing at the subtle observation of a child. Mom said a good filmmaker must know what the character is afraid of, not just know what the character is running from.

In the evening, her mother told her that she once wanted to become an art teacher, but Linh's father needed someone at the theater to help with everything. Linh asked her if she regretted it, after so many years of putting that dream aside. Her mother said yes, but regretted not making a new life. She could have started again later, she just never believed she was allowed to do so, never allowed herself to put her own dreams above her responsibilities to her family.

Linh said her mother was allowed to stay in An Binh as long as she wanted, without needing to ask anyone's permission. Mom said she would make her own decisions, not needing anyone to give her permission for her own life. The answer made them both laugh, a rare laugh of relief in the midst of days where many things remained unresolved.

Minh came to ask for a roll of electrical wire to fix the lights, and saw the classroom showing short videos the students had just filmed. A little girl asked him if he knew how to repair cameras. He replied that he knew how to fix everything except being secretly filmed, a joke implying something. Hau said from behind the curtain that he still hadn't forgotten the phone incident that once embarrassed him.

The class ended with a short film about Minh's yellow raincoat. He pretended not to realize that he was the main character in that video, even though everyone knew it. Linh looked at him under the blue light of the small screen, thinking that sometimes people become part of the story without even realizing it, just like she became a part of An Binh without realizing it.

Linh's mother saved the video in the classroom folder, carefully recording each child's name. She said the children would later forget what they filmed, but the data still reminded them that they had seen An Binh with their own eyes, a perspective that could not be repeated at any other stage in their lives.

Linh asks parents for permission before saving their children's images, carefully following the established security procedures. Hau designed the consent form to be simple, without using confusing words so that all parents can read and understand clearly. Mom said protecting children is as important as protecting adult records, no exceptions should be overlooked.

That weekend, Linh's mother suggested organizing a small screening just for parents, so they could see what their children had learned. She carefully prepared, selected the most beautiful clips, and cut them into a short compilation with background music chosen by herself from old songs. When the screening took place, many parents could not contain their emotions when they saw their children, through the amateur camera lens, seeing the town in a way they had never thought of: colorful, full of small details that busy adults often ignore.

After the screening, a young mother lingered and hesitantly asked if her daughter, who was only six years old this year, could attend the class even though she was too young compared to the other students. Linh's mother smiled, saying age is not as important as whether the child is curious about the world around them or not, and she is willing to set aside a corner of the classroom for younger children, teaching them how to observe with their own eyes before holding a camera.

Linh stood watching her mother chatting with parents, her hand holding a book with a list of new students, her confident and warm appearance completely different from the timid woman standing outside the theater gate the day she returned. She realized that sometimes, recovery doesn't come from big conversations that resolve every problem, but from small tasks repeated every day, until they gradually become a normal part of life.