Chapter 24 — The Bookmobile Through the Mountains

After the night of rescuing baby Senh, Nghi returned home both exhausted and filled with an emotion that was hard to name. She slept for a long time until noon the next day. When she woke up, her body was still sore from the stress and cold of the stormy night, but her mind was unusually alert, as if something important had just been opened in her heart.

In the afternoon, while cleaning up her father's old leather briefcase - the one she still carries on important business trips - Nghi accidentally discovered a small compartment at the bottom of the briefcase that she had never noticed before, hidden by a fabric lining that had just one corner torn off. Curious, she gently slid her hand in and pulled out a paper envelope that had yellowed over time, with her father's familiar words written on the outside: "Dear daughter, when you need to read it the most."

Nghi's heart beat fast, her hands trembled as she opened the envelope, inside was a handwritten letter, the handwriting was a bit shaky compared to the usual notes in the notebook, probably written in one of the last days before his sudden death.

"I suspect," the letter began, "if you are reading these lines, perhaps I am no longer with you, or you are going through some difficult period on the bookmobile road. I wrote this letter after I almost fell ill in the middle of the road, suddenly realized I was no longer young, and wanted to leave a few words, in case I didn't have time to tell you directly."

Nghi continued reading, tears began to roll down uncontrollably. "I know, if one day you decide to continue this program, you will have to face many difficulties - money, roads, maybe even people who do not believe in the value of bringing books to remote places like this. I want you to know, I have never done this to prove anything to anyone. I do it because I believe, every child, no matter where they are born, deserves the opportunity touch a book, deserves to dream big dreams. work like any other child in this world."

"Don't ever think that you have to be like your father to be worthy of continuing this work," the letter continued, "you are you, with your own heart and way of thinking. If one day you find this road too difficult, too lonely, remember that you are not alone. There is your mother, there are all the families on the route who believe in this program, and there is father, even though he is no longer present in the flesh, but will always follow you, somewhere between the pages of your book." take it away every day."

At the end of the letter, his handwriting was somewhat blurred, perhaps because he was crying while writing these lines. "I only have one wish, that you will find your own happiness on this path, not because of the burden of responsibility, but because you really love the job you are doing, love the people you meet every day. If you find that, I believe, you will go very far, farther than I have ever done. Love you so much, Dad."

Nghi hugged the letter to her chest, sobbing, tears of both pain and happiness, as if her father had just returned from somewhere, hugging her tightly, soothing all the fears and pressures she had silently carried for over a year. She realized that the answer to the question "whether I am worthy or not" that she had always asked herself had been in this letter for a long time, just waiting for the right time for her to find and fully understand.

Mrs. Dung, hearing her daughter's cry, entered the room, saw the letter in Nghi's hand, she was silent for a moment then sat down next to her, hugging her daughter. "Your father wrote that letter about three months ago before he passed away. I know because I once saw him sitting and writing something for a long time. When asked, he just laughed and said he wrote it for you, saving it for when you needed it. I also didn't expect him to hide it so carefully. I had to wait until today to find it."

"I wish I found this letter sooner, Mom," Nghi said, her voice choked up. "Maybe you wouldn't have had to spend so many nights tormenting yourself."

"Maybe everything comes just when it needs to, my child," Mrs. Dung said gently, stroking her daughter's hair. "If you had read this letter from the beginning, perhaps you would not have gone through and learned the lessons you have learned over the past year on your own. Now, when you read it, after everything you have done — after the night of saving little Senh, after eight weeks of a strenuous campaign — this letter is not to show you the way, but to confirm that you have found your own right path."

Her mother's words made Nghi awaken to something profound. She realized that all this time, she had been constantly looking for recognition, confirmation that she was worthy of continuing her father's legacy, but in fact, the journey she had gone through - from the first confused car ride, to the fight to protect the budget, to the stormy night of saving people - was itself the clearest proof, without needing any additional confirmation from outside, including from her father himself.

That evening, Nghi brought the letter to his father's altar, burned a stick of incense, and placed the letter next to his picture. “Dad, I read your letter,” she whispered, her voice calm but with a new firmness. "I'm no longer afraid of whether I'm worthy or not. I know, I'm going my own way, and I'm doing it with all my heart, just like you did. Thank you, Dad, for believing in me, even when you're no longer here to see it."

She sat quietly in front of the altar for a long time, feeling a peace she had never felt since her father's death. Outside, the storm had completely dissipated, leaving behind a clear, starry night sky, a rare and beautiful scene after days of constant rain and wind, like a gentle goodbye to nature before entering the final decisive phase of the battle to protect the bookmobile program that her father had worked so hard to build.

Nam called immediately afterward, asking about her health after the hard and stormy night. Nghi told him about the letter she had just found, her voice was still emotional but much calmer. Nam listened silently, then spoke, his voice warm and full of emotion. "Your father must be a wonderful person, Nghi. Not everyone is sophisticated enough to think of leaving a letter like that for their child, in case direct words no longer have time to be uttered."

"I wish you had the chance to meet my father," Nghi said, her voice gentle, "I think you two would get along very well, sharing the same belief in the value of education, of bringing knowledge to the most difficult places."

"I believe so," Nam replied, "and I think, in a way, I have met your father, through the path he left behind, through the way you treated each child on the route, through the steadfastness you showed during these past weeks. His spirit is still alive, in you, and in all that this program continues to bring to this land."

Those words made Nghi's heart feel strangely warm. She looked up at the starry night sky through the window, thinking, perhaps it was as Nam said, her father had never really left, he was still there, in every page of the book, in every trip, in the love that she was gradually cultivating with the man who had accompanied her through many past challenges.

Before ending the call, Nam also repeated the news about the upcoming hearing, which was less than a week away. "Last night's story, about baby Senh, will definitely be the strongest evidence I can give at the hearing. I have contacted Yen, she is urgently completing a new article about this incident, in time to post it before the hearing date."

"I'm still in shock about everything that happened," Nghi said, her voice low. "But I think, thanks to experiencing that night, I truly understood the meaning of what I was protecting. It was no longer numbers or theories, but a specific life, a specific family."

"That's right," Nam agreed, "and I believe, when you stand before the upcoming hearing, you will no longer feel as scared as before, because you have in your hands the most convincing proof that no one can deny - proof that this program is, sometimes, the boundary between life and death."

The call ended, Nghi put down the phone, looked at her father's letter one more time before carefully putting it in her notebook, where she knew she would read it many more times in the years to come, whenever she needed a little more strength to continue on the road ahead.