Chapter 2 — The day I disappeared, they realized their mistake

The last bus has passed, the nearest hotel in town is ten kilometers away. I had just enough money to buy a train ticket back. I, To Niem, twenty-seven years old, all my current assets... are probably only enough to eat a bowl of wontons at a roadside restaurant. Isn't it funny? When I pushed the door open again, they had already started eating. The plate of braised meat is placed in the middle of the table. My mother picked up chicken wings for Trang Trang, To Hao dug in to eat, and Vuong Le used chopsticks to scroll through his phone and choose the thickest piece of beef. No one raised their heads. It was as if the confrontation just now had never happened.

“Nhiem Nhiem, let's eat.” My mother didn't raise her head, her voice returned to her usual matter-of-fact tone, "Cold food is not delicious."

I don't sit down.

“I'm going to see my room.”

“Your room—” my mother's voice paused for a moment, “there are a lot of Trang Trang's things, let's leave it for now…”

I was standing in front of the door. Push the door open. The moment the light turned on, I thought I was in the wrong room. My desk has disappeared. The solid wood desk that accompanied me throughout middle school and high school—on the top of the desk were the words “trying hard” that I hand-carved—is no longer there. Instead there was a folded baby stroller, three boxes of unopened diapers, and two dusty luggage bags. The bed is still there. But the bed sheet is from Trang Trang, printed with a picture of a rescue dog team. The bookshelf was emptied. My textbooks, my notebooks, the literary magazines I had accumulated for three years of high school—all were gone. The closet was filled with Trang Trang's early learning machines, intellectual toys, and out-of-season cotton shirts. The stickers on the wall were also peeled off. The world map I posted when I was eighteen—on which I circled the five cities I most wanted to visit in red pen—only had a tattered corner at the top. I stood in the middle of this room, smelling the smell of powdered milk and mothballs mixed together. There's nothing left that belongs to me. It was as if To Niem had never existed in this house.

“Where are my books?”

I turned around and asked my mother who was standing at the door.

"I graduated a long time ago, why keep those things? They're sold for scrap." She said lightly, as if throwing away a bag of expired food, “That bookshelf is just where Trang Trang used to keep his toys—”

“So where are my royalties?”

My mother paused.

“What royalties?”

"In high school, I submitted articles to magazines and accumulated 3,200 yuan. Put them in a blue iron box, placed on the top shelf of the bookcase."

That 3,200 yuan was the first money I earned on my own in my life. Not much. But every penny bears my seventeen-year-old fingerprint. My mother's eyes shifted.

"That... when your brother went to college, there was a shortage of tuition fees, so I used it for now. I thought I would pay you later when I got a job..."

I will pay you back. Again, "I will pay you back". I bowed my head and smiled softly. Maybe my mother thought I was smiling because I was able to let go. Not. I'm laughing at myself. I sat on the bed covered with sheets printed with the image of Trang Trang's rescue dog team and turned off the light. Darkness fell, twenty-seven years of memories seemed to rewind, each frame hitting me straight. At the New Year's Eve meal, grandmother brought out a whole roasted chicken. Two chicken thighs, one for To Hao, one for his cousin. I reached out to grab the chicken wing, but my mother held me back:

“Let your brother eat first.”

I used chicken dumplings to dip in chicken broth. Tell yourself, water is delicious too. Twelve years old. At the beginning of the school year, you have to pay for books, 230 yuan. Mom rummaged through the cupboard and gathered only enough money for one person. To Hao is five years older than me and has leveled up Third, tuition is more expensive. When giving him money, mother said:

"You just wait a little longer. I'll have my salary next month and then pay it."

Next month, then the next month. The homeroom teacher asked me in front of the whole class why I hadn't paid yet. I bowed my head, unable to say a word. A burning sensation of humiliation ran from my neck to my ears. Fifteen years old. After finishing high school, I ranked third in the whole school. To Hao took the university entrance exam the same year and passed a normal school. The whole family had a party—to congratulate To Hao. No one mentioned my achievements. I went back to my room, folded the scoreboard into a paper airplane, and threw it out the window. Eighteen years old. It was my last birthday in this house. No—that day, no one even remembered my birthday. Early in the morning, mother went out to bring blankets to To Hao's dormitory. Dad passed away two years ago, and I'm the only one left in the house. I went to the small supermarket near my room to buy a box of noodles and mix it up. When I picked up the noodles, the smell of stir-fried food drifted from the opposite window. I opened the notebook and wrote a line:

“One day, I will live beautifully by myself.”

That year, I couldn't wait for any birthday wishes. But I waited for a letter. Looking back now, at that time I just realized it came too late. Early September, the last days to issue admission notices. Every day I went to the security room to ask if I had my letter, and asked for two months. The security guard turned over the stack of newspapers:

“No.”

I thought I failed. Probably just a few points behind, I consoled myself. The high school in town was already poor, so getting that score was not easy.

"Nhiem Nhiem, you see your brother is going to college, the family's tuition is about to become unbearable. Go out and work first, help the family. Later, when you have the means, then consider it again."

“Continue to calculate.”

Later, I realized that was the biggest lie of my life. I don't "keep going" anymore. Holding my high school diploma, I went to the city and joined a small company to do administrative work. Basic salary 2,800 yuan. On payday, my mother's phone always calls on time:

“Nhiem Nhiem, this month the house is lacking…”

Missing for nine years. It's never been enough. I sat in the dark for a long time. It took a while until the sound of the TV in the living room turned off. It took a while until the neighbor's light above also turned off. Then I heard footsteps. Mom pushed the door open a crack, half-peeping in.

“Nhiem Nhiem, are you sleeping yet?”

I didn't reply. Maybe she thought I was asleep. Hesitating for a few seconds, she gently walked in and placed an apple on the head of the bed. About to turn away, then stopped. She muttered a sentence, very quietly, as if afraid I would hear it, but as if she was talking to herself:

“This kid, why is his temper getting bigger and bigger…”

The door closes. Not "Mom was wrong". Not "I will think of a way". It's "this girl's personality is getting bigger and bigger". I opened my eyes in the darkness, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. There is something in my heart that has been cracked for a long time... today it finally broke completely. Not broken in a moment. It's the 180,000 yuan that was wiped out, the 3,200 yuan royalties, the birthday cake that never existed, the room that turned into a storage room, the saying "temperament gets bigger and bigger" - It all piled up, crushing the last strand of hair. I sat up. Searching in the corner of the nightstand, I found an old photo. The last time I came back, before Trang Trang was born, I accidentally left it behind. In the photo, the girl is sitting at the table in the motel room, in front of her is a bowl of instant noodles, next to an open notebook. Eighteen years old. I stuffed the photo in my pocket. That's the only thing I brought with me from this house. After that, I picked up the phone and did three things in silent mode. First thing: open the recruitment page, search for "Hangzhou". Second thing: open the banking app, check the balance. 2370.44 yuan. Third thing: send my best friend Tran Vy a message—

"Vy Vy, I'm gone. Don't tell anyone."

Outside the window it started to rain. Hearing the sound of rain falling, I realized for the first time that this ceiling was not a ceiling. Which is a lid. And I… was about to flip it.