Chapter 13 — Unfinished Music

The parent permission form was mixed among several exercise books in Gia Bảo's school bag, an A4-sized sheet of paper with the school's title pre-printed, the content clearly stating: "Dear Parents, the school respectfully announces that the Choir Club team will attend the cluster-level Preliminary Round of the School Choir Festival, held at the Hall of Lê Quý Đôn High School next Saturday morning. Parents are requested to sign to confirm their children's participation, departure time from school at 6:30 a.m.." Below is a list of competing performances, and in the third line, clearly printed in bold font: "Item 2 — Optional song (folk song) — Lead vocalist: Phạm Gia Bảo, class 12A4."

Gia Bảo planned to give the paper to his mother to sign at an appropriate time, perhaps after dinner, when the whole family was in the most comfortable mood, and he would find a way to minimize the singing part, emphasizing that this was a normal school trip. But that plan was completely ruined on Thursday afternoon, while he was still practicing in the music room and Ms. Thanh, cleaning her son's room before washing his uniforms, happened to see the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from a math notebook left haphazardly on the desk.

She picked up the paper, initially just planning to glance at it, thinking it was some normal study announcement. But when her eyes stopped at the line of her son's name, right next to the words "Lead vocalist", her whole body stiffened, the paper in her hand trembled slightly.

Ms. Thanh read that line over and over again, as if hoping her eyes were mistaken, as if there was another Phạm Gia Bảo in the school with the same name as her son. But no, the class address was clearly written as 12A4, the correct class for her son, and the full name was also unmistakable.

When Gia Bảo arrived home, it was completely dark. As soon as he walked through the door, he immediately felt a different atmosphere covering the house, much heavier than usual. Ms. Thanh was sitting at the dining table, the permission slip placed neatly in front of her, her hands clasped together on the table, her eyes looking straight at the door, waiting.

"Sit down here," Ms. Thanh said, her voice so calm that it was scary, without any anger that Gia Bảo was still mentally preparing to face.

Gia Bảo saw the paper on the table, his heart sank immediately. He put down his schoolbag and slowly sat in the chair opposite his mother, not daring to look her in the eyes.

"When are you going to tell mom about this?" Ms. Thanh asked, her voice still remaining calm, but Gia Bảo could clearly detect the trembling creeping behind each word.

"I... I plan to give my mother the signature tonight," Gia Bảo replied, his voice getting quieter. "I'm sorry for not saying it sooner."

"I didn't ask about the paper," Ms. Thanh said, her voice starting to choke. "I asked when you were going to tell me that you joined the Choir Club. How long have you been practicing singing after school, without me knowing anything?"

Gia Bảo was silent, not knowing where to start. He had pictured this conversation many times in his head, but never had he been prepared for his mother's eyes that were gradually filling with tears.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he said, his voice also starting to shake. "I didn't mean to hide it from you, Mom. I just... I didn't know how to tell you."

"Do you know why it's so hard for you to tell me?" Ms. Thanh asked, her voice trembling more clearly, her hands clasped tightly together on the table. "Because I know mom will be worried. And you're right, mom is very worried, Gia Bảo."

"Mom," Gia Bảo began, but Ms. Thanh raised her hand, signaling him to let her finish.

"Do you remember the performance review in ninth grade?" she asked, her voice could no longer maintain its original composure, each word uttered carried an old pain that had never truly healed. "Mom was sitting in the third row, right in the middle of the hall, watching you stand on that stage. I saw you sing very well in the first verses, how proud I was, until..."

She stopped, unable to continue speaking, her hands covering her mouth, trying to hold back a sob.

"I saw you standing there dumbfounded on that stage," Ms. Thanh continued, her voice breaking into a small cry. "I saw you running down in tears. I hugged you in the dressing room that night, feeling your whole body trembling with self-pity and shame. For the next three years, I watched you lock yourself in your room with the guitar, not daring to sing in front of anyone, not even in front of me. I blamed myself so many times for not stopping you from signing up for that performance from the beginning, for letting you endure that pain alone."

Gia Bảo felt his throat tighten, tears began to well up in his eyes, not because of fear, but because he saw the real pain in his mother's eyes, a pain that he had never realized so deeply, because she had never said it out loud for the past three years.

"I didn't know Mom still remembered it so clearly," he said, his voice hoarse.

"How could I forget," Ms. Thanh replied, quickly wiping away the tears rolling down her cheeks. "I am your mother, Gia Bảo. Your pain is also my pain. And now, when I see this piece of paper, seeing your name written on the choir list, standing and singing alone in front of an unfamiliar hall, I am so afraid. I am afraid that history will repeat itself, afraid that you will have to go through exactly what you went through that year again, but this time it will be worse, because it is not my school, not familiar people, but a hall full of strange people, full of judges, full of pressure."

"Mom," Gia Bảo said, trying to keep his voice steady even though tears were rolling down his cheeks. "I understand you're worried. I really do. But this time is different, Mom. I've practiced a lot, I've sung in front of the whole club, eleven people, and I did it. I'm no longer the fifteen-year-old kid standing there dumbfounded on stage that year."

"Do you think three years is enough for things to be different?" Ms. Thanh asked, her voice still shaking but mixed with something close to desperation. "I don't want to see you suffer again, Gia Bảo. I'd rather you never touch singing again, than have to see you stand on that stage again and risk repeating the same thing."

Those words made Gia Bảo speechless, clearly feeling a tug of war going on in his heart, between his love for his mother, his understanding of the pain she was carrying, and his strong desire to continue on the path he had just rediscovered after many years of hiding.

"I don't want to hurt you any more," he said, his voice low. "But I don't want to give up on this either, Mom. For the first time in three years, I feel like I can live with myself when I sing, no matter how scared I am. I don't know how to explain that feeling to you."

Ms. Thanh was silent for a long time, looking at her son with complicated eyes, both sad and somewhat confused at his unexpected steadfastness, a steadfastness that she had never seen in her son since the incident in ninth grade.

"I need time to think," she said at last, her voice somewhat calmer, though her eyes were still red. "I can't sign this paper right now, Gia Bảo. Not because I want to stop you, but because I need time to calm down and think more clearly."

Gia Bảo nodded, not daring to force his mother to say anything more in that moment, even though his heart was still filled with hundreds of worries about the approaching deadline to submit the paper. "Yes, I understand, Mom. I will wait for you."

Ms. Thanh stood up, picked up the paper, folded it carefully and placed it on a nearby bookshelf, instead of immediately returning it to her son as Gia Bảo expected. "Mom, can you keep this paper for a few days? I need to think more."

"Yes," Gia Bảo replied, feeling a strange emptiness creeping into his heart, mixed with a vague fear that perhaps, after all he had tried, the door of music he had just opened was in danger of closing again, this time not because of himself, but because of the great love of his mother who was trying to protect him from a pain she did not want him to experience again.

That night, Gia Bảo lay in bed for a long time without being able to sleep, his mother's choked voice still rang in his ears, the image of her red eyes kept appearing in his head every time he closed his eyes. He looked at the guitar propped up in the corner of the room, the faint light from the nightlight illuminating the glossy body of the instrument, and for the first time since he began the journey to finding his voice, he felt that the road ahead was no longer simply about overcoming his own fears, but also about how not to make the mother who loved him so much suffer another heartbreak.