Chapter 16 — The Call That Locked My In-Laws Out

Phung Le Binh insisted that Manh Thoi Vien had been the one to order her to take the items. Within the official record, mother and son had begun to turn on each other, hurling accusations back and forth. Hearing this, I felt no shock. Their version of family unity had always been predicated on my endless sacrifices; the moment consequences arrived, everyone scrambled to shrink away from the fallout. I turned to the officer on the line.

"Can that note be subjected to forensic handwriting analysis?"

The officer replied, "It can be preserved as evidence for future proceedings. Should you choose to file a civil lawsuit or escalate this into a separate criminal case, you may formally request an expert examination."

After hanging up, Tham Man sent me a compressed file. Inside were screenshots of chat logs, audio recordings, and several bank transfer slips. I opened them one by one. Manh Thoi Vien had purchased bracelets for her using my supplementary card. He had booked hotel rooms for her using my supplementary card. Even the registration fees for her prenatal checkups had been swiped from the card ending in 6912. I stared at the digital receipts, a chilling sensation creeping through my stomach. Just then, my bank relationship manager called, her tone far more somber than it had been during the day.

"Ms. Ha, during a routine risk assessment audit, we discovered that Mr. Manh attempted to file for a small business loan by claiming you and he were business partners. The file included digital copies of your salary statements and the property deed for your home."

I sat bolt upright. "When?"

"The night before your child was born."

The night before the birth. Those words felt like a needle, pricking into every crevice of my memory. That evening, I had been in such agony that I had to cling to the walls just to stay upright. Manh Thoi Vien had told me he had an urgent meeting at the office. He hadn't gone to any meeting. He had gone to the hotel to see Tham Man. He had also stolen my documents, attempting to dump the weight of a debt onto my shoulders. I demanded that the bank manager send me the entire preliminary application file. She was cautious.

"Ms. Ha, the formal loan has not been disbursed. However, the application was indeed logged into our system. We strongly recommend you submit a formal written objection immediately."

"I will write it right now," I said.

My lawyer friend took the call and confirmed the necessary procedures with the bank manager. I sat at the dining table, the pen heavy in my hand, my wrist stiff. I clearly stated that I had never authorized Manh Thoi Vien to use my home information, salary records, or personal signature. I detailed that all the suspicious expenditures on the supplementary card were not authorized by me. I demanded the bank preserve the login credentials, submission timestamps, and the records of the internal staff who processed the request. As I reached the end, I suddenly froze. I remembered the kraft paper envelope Manh Thoi Vien had taken from the cabinet that night. It contained more than just the pages bearing my signature. It held a legacy from my father—the gift deed for the down payment on our home. Before he passed, my father had insisted on documenting that the down payment was a gift solely to me. I had kept it tucked away, never touching it. If that document was gone, they could easily argue that the house was a joint asset acquired during the marriage. I stood up and rushed to my study. The filing cabinet was still locked, but the bottom drawer showed signs of having been pried open. My heart tightened as I pulled it out. The kraft envelope was gone. My mother followed me inside, her expression shifting instantly.

"What is missing?"

"Father’s gift deed."

She gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles turning white. That document had been drafted by my father, line by line, during his final months. He had been so frail, yet he insisted my mother find witnesses, signing every page with painstaking effort. He had said that when Ha Thanh Hoa married, she must have a foundation of her own. I had always thought he was overthinking things. Now, I realized he understood human nature far better than I ever did. My lawyer friend heard the news and spoke quickly.

"Do not panic yet. If the gift deed was witnessed or filed, we can secure supplementary evidence."

My mother suddenly remembered. "Father’s former colleague was present back then. Even the neighborhood mediator signed it."

I immediately checked my contacts. The mediator had retired, but the number still connected. After hearing my explanation, she sighed. "Your father specifically asked me to keep a scanned copy that year. He said he was afraid you might be too soft-hearted."

Holding the phone, my eyes welled up with tears. She quickly sent over the scan. White background, black ink, every word distinct. The down payment was a gift exclusively for Ha Thanh Hoa, not to be considered joint marital property. At the bottom was my father’s familiar signature. Looking at those characters, I finally bowed my head, unable to hold back a sob. I was not standing alone. Years ago, my father had already stood as a shield at the doorway for me. By ten o'clock that night, my lawyer had finished compiling the divorce petition, the request for asset preservation, the risk assessment declaration, and the application for a protective order. I confirmed every item. My child slept in the room. My mother sat by the bedside, her hand resting gently on the small blanket. The house was silent—so silent that I could hear the last thread of my heart snapping completely. At ten-thirty, Manh Thoi Vien left the police station. He did not call me. He sent a single photograph.