Chapter 7 — The Hand That Carves Sin

Each time this occurred, I would pull my child tightly into my arms and whisper, "Mother is here; Mother will protect you forever." My own hand was slowly recovering. With the help of Old Truong, I had managed to connect with a retired professor from the rehabilitation department. Twice a week, I would endure a bus ride of over an hour to reach his home for therapy. The process was agonizing; every stretch and every electrical stimulation felt like reliving my torture all over again. Yet, I gritted my teeth and refused to utter a single sound. I could not collapse. For An An, I especially could not crumble. The woman in the mirror had grown thin and haggard, but her eyes were brighter and more resolute than ever before. It was the gaze of someone pushed to the edge who had decided to risk everything to shatter the walls closing in on her.

The divorce proceedings remained deadlocked. Tran Da’s side insisted that I was the one who had "strayed first," refusing to concede an inch. With the "support" of public opinion, the judge appeared to be in a difficult position. Lawyer Vuong warned me that without stronger evidence to prove Tran Da’s history of long-term domestic abuse and to debunk his slanderous claims of "infidelity," my chances of winning custody were slim. Tran Da had targeted my Achilles' heel perfectly; he knew that An An was the person I cherished most.

Time slipped away day by day. In the blink of an eye, four months had passed. The city descended into midsummer, the air thick and stifling. That afternoon, while I was playing with building blocks on the floor with An An, there was a knock at the door. Expecting the water meter reader, I peered through the peephole and froze. Two men stood outside. One was Director Luu, the head of Tran Da’s unit. The other was his highest superior, a high-ranking officer in military uniform whom I had only ever seen on television. My heart sank. Why were they here? Had they come to pressure me regarding the divorce case? I opened the door but made no move to invite them in. Blocking the threshold, I asked coldly, "What do you want?" Director Luu’s expression was incredibly complex—a mix of embarrassment, anxiety, and a trace of… desperation.

"Little To… Dr. To," he began, his change in address signaling his unease. "We… we have come to ask for your help."

"Help?" I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "A ‘wicked woman’ currently on unpaid leave with a ruined reputation—what could I possibly do for you people?"

My voice was edged with venom. Director Luu’s face flushed red, and he stood speechless. However, the high-ranking officer remained composed. He gestured for Director Luu to step back, looked me squarely in the eyes, and said in a low, steady voice, "Dr. To, I know you have suffered great injustice. But today, we are here on behalf of the country to request your services."

"The country?" I repeated the words, finding the weight of them deeply ironic.

"Tran Da… there has been an accident," the officer said.

My heart skipped a beat, though my face remained a mask of indifference. "What happened to him? Is he dead?" I asked.

The officer frowned but patiently explained, "While on a bomb disposal mission near the border, he encountered an unexpected explosion. To protect a recruit, he… he…" The officer took a heavy breath, his voice strained. "His right hand, from the wrist down, was shredded in the blast."

A ringing sound filled my head. Right hand. Shredded. Instinctively, I looked down at my own left hand, held in a splint against my chest. A sense of absurdity, twisted like a dark joke, seized me.

"And so?" I heard myself ask, my voice strangely calm. "Isn't he a hero? Surely the best hospitals and the top surgeons in your unit can save him?"

"They cannot," the officer shook his head, his voice heavy with despair. "We have consulted every hospital capable of receiving him. The injuries are too complex—a combination of blast trauma and high-temperature burns. The tissue damage is far too severe. They all say that amputation is the only option."

Amputation. The word, spoken by a commander who had seen a hundred battles, weighed like lead.

"But the Chief of Orthopedics at the Military General Hospital, who was also your mentor, said that… there is perhaps only one person in the entire country who might be able to save his hand." The officer’s gaze was like a sword, locking onto mine. "That person is you, Dr. To Hoan."

I laughed. No sound emerged, just a lifting of the corner of my lips—a smile surely more hideous than any cry.

"Commander, are you mistaken?" I leaned against the doorframe, watching them like two strangers who had walked into the wrong house. "I, To Hoan, have a crippled hand. I can barely hold a pair of chopsticks, let alone perform the nation’s most delicate microsurgery."

I spoke the truth. My hand, though recovering, was miles away from the standard required for a surgical theater.

"No, your hand is not crippled," the officer insisted, his voice unwavering. "We have consulted your mentor and the professor overseeing your recovery. They both confirmed that the structure of your hand is healing remarkably well. Even if the nerve function has not fully returned, with the assistance of a specialized device, you have a fighting chance to complete this surgery."