Chapter 22 — Two Sides of an Argument

Việt Bách's family's house was located in a quiet alley, the type of house that right from the entrance exudes almost absolute order - rows of trees trimmed evenly, stone walkways without a single fallen leaf, as if clutter was a form of reasoning error that needed to be eliminated from every corner of life. Việt Bách stood in front of the gate for a moment longer than necessary, his hand still clutching the strap of his bag, trying to suppress the feeling of nervousness that was rolling in his chest - a feeling so strange that he almost didn't recognize himself, because in his eighteen years of life, he had never felt afraid before entering his own house.

The light in his father's office was still on, like every night. Mr. Trần Quốc Hùng had a habit of staying in that room until late, grading papers, preparing lesson plans, reading new sentences to prepare for next week's lecture, an iron discipline that he had maintained for many years of teaching, and was also a discipline that he always expects his son to follow. Việt Bách walked through the living room, where his certificates of merit were neatly hung on the wall in chronological order, from the city-level debate first prize in ninth grade to this year's Debate Club captain's certificate - a collection of achievements carefully displayed as if they were evidence for a certain point he was still trying to prove, even though Việt Bách never really understood what that point was.

He knocked on the office door, three times, decisively.

"Come in," Mr. Hùng's voice rang out from inside, not raising his head from the pile of papers in front of him when Việt Bách entered.

"Dad, I need to talk to you." Việt Bách stood neatly in front of his desk, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, even though his heart was beating faster than any debate he had ever participated in.

"If it's about this semester's grades, it's okay to talk about it tomorrow," Mr. Hùng replied, still writing notes in the margin of a test booklet. "Dad is busy."

"It's not about scores." Việt Bách took a deep breath. "It's about the Debate Club. And about the early admission application."

The pen in Mr. Hùng's hand stopped. He slowly put it down, raised his head, looked straight at his son with sharp eyes, the kind of eyes Việt Bách had been familiar with all his life - the eyes of a person preparing to listen to an argument, ready to find every flaw in it. "Dad, listen."

Việt Bách pulled out the opposite chair and sat down, even though Mr. Hùng had never invited him to sit. It was a small action, but he did it with purpose — a way to remind himself that in this conversation, he would not be standing in the position of a defendant in court.

"I did something wrong last week," he began, his voice slow but clear. "During a big practice session, in front of the whole club, I publicly denied my training partner's contribution, using words cruel enough to hurt him deeply. I did that because I was afraid. I was afraid of losing your sponsorship for my early admission application, afraid of disappointing you again, so I tried to turn myself into exactly the person you wanted me to be — someone who only believes in data, seeing emotions as something that needs to be eliminated. But in doing so, I lost myself, and hurt someone who didn't deserve to be treated like that."

Mr. Hùng sat still, his face showing no clear expression, but his eyes followed his son more attentively than usual. "So what did you come here for? Apologize to me for listening to you?"

"Are not." Việt Bách shook his head, his voice stiffened. "I came here to tell you that I won't do that again. I want to argue, and I want to live, on my own terms, not as an extension of your expectations."

A heavy silence enveloped the room. Mr. Hùng slowly took off the glasses he was wearing, placed them on the table, and gently rubbed the bridge of his nose - a rare gesture that Việt Bách only saw him did when he really had to think, instead of reacting immediately.

"Do you think dad puts pressure on you because he likes to do it?" he asked, his voice still calm, but with a strange tone creeping in, a tension lurking beneath the surface. "Do you think I spent twenty years of my career teaching you to be precise, to have evidence, to control your emotions, just because I'm an unreasonably harsh person?"

"I didn't say you did that for no reason," Việt Bách replied, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I think you did it because you believed it was the only way for me to succeed in a world that doesn't tolerate mistakes. But you never asked me once, not even once, what I really wanted. Do you remember when I was in ninth grade? I won first place in the city's debate, and the first thing you said to me was not 'you're very good,' but rather criticizing the introduction I told about my grandmother as redundant, diluting the argument. I'm fourteen years old, dad. I just want to hear it." I'm proud of you, even if it's just one sentence, before hearing the next mistake."

Mr. Hùng did not respond immediately. Something flashed in his eyes—not exactly remorse, but a realization, as if he had just been pointed out a point he himself had never looked back on.

"I remember that day," he finally said, his voice slower. "Dad remembers very clearly."

"So dad, did you know that after that day I never started a speech with a personal story again? For four years straight?" Việt Bách asked, his voice began to tremble with emotion, but he didn't stop. "Until recently, when I met a practice partner who showed me that a true story, told properly, can be as powerful as a table of facts. That person taught me many things about debate that you never taught me, not because you were wrong, but because you only taught me half of a complete argument. And last week, under your pressure, I stood in front of her and the entire club, telling her the exact words a judge used to hurt her. I loved her deeply at my old school, just because I was afraid of losing your patronage. I turned my fear into a weapon to hurt others. That's something I can't forgive myself, and I don't want to do it again."

Mr. Hùng stood up, walked to the window, turned his back on his son for a moment, looking out at the dark yard outside. When he spoke, his voice had lost some of its usual sharpness. "You said I never asked you what you wanted. So tell me. What do you want?"

Việt Bách took a deep breath, knowing that this was the decisive moment. “I still want to study law,” he said, clearly and firmly. "That has never changed. But I want it to be my own choice, not because you sponsor the application in my name, not to continue to be an extended version of you. If you withdraw your sponsorship, I will submit the application myself as a regular person, prepare myself, and be responsible for the results myself. I would rather fail the exam because my own ability is lacking, than pass thanks to your name and lose myself along the way. And I want to continue debating in style. The way I believe is right — combining reason and emotion — because I've seen it work, not just in theory, but in the battles I've won."

Mr. Hùng still stood with his back turned, silent for so long that Việt Bách began to wonder if he had just completely ruined the already fragile relationship between the two. But he didn't take back his words, didn't try to appease, just sat there, waiting, letting the silence exist as it was — not a void that needed to be filled with fear, but a silence necessary for someone who was truly thinking.

"I studied law because your grandfather forced me," Mr. Hùng finally said, his voice low, a nuance that Việt Bách had almost never heard from his father. "I wanted to study literature. Your grandfather said that literature can't make a living, only law can give you a solid place in society. I listened, and I succeeded according to the metrics your grandfather set. But there are nights when I still wonder, if I were chosen that day, how different my life would be." He turned back to look at his son, his eyes more complicated than any time Việt Bách had ever seen. "I didn't know I was repeating the same thing to you."

Việt Bách didn't say anything, just quietly let that rare confession exist between the two of them, feeling something in his chest loosen for the first time in many years.

"I'm not saying you're completely wrong in setting high standards," Việt Bách added, his voice softer. "Thanks to you, I know how to build a rigorous argument, know how to demand evidence, know not to accept carelessness. Those are things I will carry with me for the rest of my life, and I am grateful to you for that. But I also need to be allowed to feel, to be allowed to be wrong, to be allowed to choose my own path, even if it is not exactly the same as the path you outlined."

Mr. Hùng returned to his desk, sat down, but did not pick up his pen again. He looked at his son for a long time, and in those eyes, for the first time in many years, Việt Bách realized something that was not quite agreement, but was no longer a complete denial like before - a small silence of concession that he knew, for someone like his father, was a significant step forward.

"I won't promise to stop having high expectations for you," Mr. Hùng said, his voice still maintaining the familiar severity, but something was less cold. "I don't think I can do that, and I'm not sure if it would be a good thing for you if I did. But I'll think again about the file." He paused, as if he himself were surprised by what he was about to say next. "And I want to know. In the school finals of the national tournament, when will you compete?"

Việt Bách froze for a second, not daring to believe what he had just heard. "The national qualifiers will take place in about three weeks, if your team can still retain their spot," he replied, trying to keep his voice calm even though an emotion that was difficult to name was rising in his heart.

"Dad will arrange the time," Mr. Hùng said, briefly, almost reluctantly, but it was a sentence he had never said before - during the two years Việt Bách joined the Debate Club, Mr. Hùng never once came to watch him compete, always making excuses to be busy or thinking that it was just an extracurricular activity not worth spending time on.

"Thank you, dad," Việt Bách said, his voice slightly choked.

Mr. Hùng nodded once, briefly, then picked up his pen again, bending down to the stack of papers in front of him - a familiar sign that the conversation had ended in his own way, without noise, without hugs, without big promises. But when Việt Bách stood up, preparing to leave the room, Mr. Hùng suddenly spoke again, without raising his head.

“That workout buddy you just mentioned,” he said, his voice deliberately indifferent but not completely able to hide the concern underneath. "You should apologize to her properly. An apology without concrete evidence of understanding is no different than an argument without evidence — it sounds right, but no one believes it."

Việt Bách stopped at the door, turned to look at his father, a small, tired but genuine smile flashed across his lips. "Yes," he replied. "I will."

He walked out of the room, closed the door behind him, stood silently for a moment in the dark hallway, letting the entire conversation that had just happened settle in his heart. It wasn't a complete reconciliation — he knew that, knew that his father wouldn't change completely overnight, knew that there were still many things left unsaid, many old scratches still there, unhealed. But for the first time in his life, he stood up straight in front of his father and told the truth, and his father, even if only by a small margin, actually listened.

He took out his phone, looked at the lock screen for a long time, his finger hovered over the name Hạ Vy in his contacts but did not press call. There was something more important he needed to do, and it couldn't be done through a hasty text message. He put his phone in his pocket, telling himself that tomorrow, he would find her, in person, and say all the things he should have said a long time ago.