Chapter 22 — Unfinished Music

When Gia Bảo arrived home, the sky had turned the dark purple color of late twilight, the street lights had just turned on along the familiar alley leading to his house. He opened the door, took off his shoes, and could only take a few steps into the living room when he heard his mother calling from the kitchen.

"You're back? Why is your face like that?"

Ms. Thanh walked out, still holding a dish towel, her eyes immediately stopped on her son's face - his eyes were still slightly swollen, the red streaks had not yet completely disappeared around his eyelids even though Gia Bảo tried to wash his face with cold water before leaving school. She put the towel down on the table and stepped closer, her voice clearly worried. "Did something happen at school? Did something happen to you again?"

Gia Bảo stood still for a moment, clearly feeling the familiar reflex rising in his heart - the reflex that wanted to say "It's nothing, Mom", wanted to avoid it, wanted to retreat to his room and close the door like he had done for many years whenever there was something related to music. But this time, facing his mother's worried eyes, he thought of Tường Vy's words this afternoon, of that short but warm handshake, and he decided that perhaps the time had come when he could no longer hide, even from his mother.

"Mom," he said, his voice quiet but clear, "I want to talk to you. It's serious."

Ms. Thanh paused, looked at her son with surprise mixed with a bit of insecurity, then nodded, sat down on the sofa in the living room, motioning for him to sit next to her. "Okay, mom, listen. If you have anything, just say it."

Gia Bảo sat down, clasped his hands together on his knees, and took a while to find the words to begin. "Do you remember the other day when you signed the permission form for me to take the exam? Mom said she was worried about me, she was afraid I would be like I was in ninth grade." He stopped, took a deep breath. "Last week, at rehearsal, I really panicked. There were cameras pointed at me, the lights suddenly turned on, and I… I ran out of the practice room in front of the whole team. I didn't tell mom because I was afraid she would make me quit the club immediately."

Ms. Thanh put her hand to her mouth, her eyes flashed with a familiar panic, something that Gia Bảo had seen countless times over the past three years whenever anyone mentioned singing in public. "You see," she said, her voice trembling, "I told you, I was worried this would happen. You don't have to put up with it anymore, Gia Bảo, you quit the club, I'll ask the school for permission, I—"

"Mom," Gia Bảo interrupted, his voice not loud but with a determination that he was surprised to hear from himself. "Mom, can I finish the story?"

Ms. Thanh closed her mouth, although her hands were still clasped tightly together on her thighs, her eyes still shone with unrelenting worry. She nodded, waiting silently.

"I know mom is scared," Gia Bảo continued, his voice slower, as if trying to organize thoughts that had been cherished for a long time but had never dared to say them out loud. "I know three years ago, you sat in the audience, watched me stand on stage, saw you cry, saw you run away. I know how much that hurt you, because it hurt me too. But mom, do you know why I chose to sing that song back then?"

Ms. Thanh shook her head slightly, her eyes began to water.

"I chose that song because it's a song my grandfather used to sing," Gia Bảo said, his voice choking when talking about him. "Mom, do you remember, when I was little, every time I went to my grandfather's house to play, he would sit on the porch, hold an old guitar, teach me chords one by one, and then we would sing together until my mother and aunt called me in for dinner. The guitar I'm still using now is the one my grandfather left behind. In ninth grade, when he passed away, I wanted to sing that song on stage as a way to remember him, to tell him that I still remember what he taught me. I practicing for two months, you know. But right at the climax, right at the moment I wanted to dedicate myself completely to him, my voice broke like that, for the past three years, that not only did I embarrass myself in front of the whole school, but I also ruined the tribute to my grandfather."

Ms. Thanh's tears began to roll down. She quickly raised her hand to wipe them away, her voice choked up. "I didn't know you still thought about it that way, Gia Bảo. I thought… I thought you were just embarrassed because your friends laughed at you."

"I'm really embarrassed," Gia Bảo admitted, "but what hurts me the most is not the laughter of my friends. It's the feeling that I've lost my last chance to say goodbye to him the way I wanted. For the past three years, I've avoided music, avoided singing in front of others, not because I no longer love music, but because I'm afraid that if I try again and fail again, I will once again ruin something important and sacred. But mom, I realize Then, the more I hide, the more I can't really put an end to it. I'm not cured, I'm just pretending to be okay."

The living room was silent for a long time, only the sound of the wall clock ticking steadily and the soft breathing of Ms. Thanh trying to hold back her tears. Finally, she spoke, her voice still shaking. "You know, that day, when I sat in the audience, watching you stand dumbfounded on stage, I blamed myself a lot. I was the one who agreed to let you sign up to sing that song, I was the one who told you that if you sang well, you would make him proud. After that day, I kept thinking, if I hadn't encouraged you to sing, maybe you wouldn't have had to endure that scene in front of so many people. I promised myself that I would never again let you face the risk of being hurt like that."

"I understand," Gia Bảo said, his voice softening, reaching out to gently hold his mother's hand on her thigh. "I understand why you're so worried, Mom. But Mom, I can't live my whole life avoiding every risk, every possibility of failure. If that continues, I'll forever be stuck in that moment in ninth grade, forever unable to truly move on. I need to be able to try, Mom. I need to be allowed to fail if that happens, not protected from every possibility of falling. That's not the way for me to heal. The only way for me to truly The only way to overcome that fear is to face it, even if you tremble, even if you may fail again."

Ms. Thanh looked at her son, her eyes were both painful and a little bit like admiration creeping in, as if she was seeing a much more mature Gia Bảo than the image of a fifteen-year-old boy crying on stage that she had kept in her mind for the past three years. "Mom… I'm not sure I can stop worrying, Gia Bảo," she said honestly, her voice still shaking but less panicked than before. "I'm your mother, I'll always take care of you, whether you're eighteen or forty years old. That's my nature, you can't force me to change completely."

"You don't need me to stop worrying," Gia Bảo said, smiling slightly, a rare smile of relief during this heavy conversation. "I just need you to trust me a little bit. Believe that I'm old enough to choose my own path, even if that path may cause me to stumble a few times."

Ms. Thanh was silent for a long time, her fingers gently squeezing her son's hand, as if trying to convey to him everything she had not been able to say. "When is your exam... when?" she finally asked, her voice much calmer.

"The semi-finals are this weekend, mom. At the City Youth Cultural House," Gia Bảo replied, his heart beating faster as he waited for his mother's reaction.

Ms. Thanh nodded slowly, looking down at the hands holding each other between mother and child. "Mom... I don't think I'm ready to sit in the audience and watch you sing, Gia Bảo," she said honestly, her voice a little guilty. "I'm afraid that if I sit there and see you standing on stage, old memories will come flooding back, and I'm afraid I won't be able to control my own emotions, which will put more pressure on you and not help. Can you give me a little more time?"

Gia Bảo nodded, not as disappointed as he thought he would feel. On the contrary, he felt strangely relieved, because for the first time his mother was honest with her fear, instead of hiding it behind a shell of overprotectiveness. "I understand, mom. It's okay."

"But," Ms. Thanh added, holding her son's hand tighter, her eyes now had a new light, a small but genuine determination. "If you guys make it to the final round, I promise, I will come and watch. I will sit right in the front row, watching you sing completely from beginning to end. I think... I think I need time to mentally prepare for that, but I will try, for you."

Gia Bảo felt his eyes sting for the second time that day, but this time it was from a warm emotion completely different from the pain that had tormented him for the past few days. "Thank you, Mom," he said, his voice choked up. "Thank you mom for listening to me."

Mother and daughter sat next to each other for a while longer in silence, a silence that was completely different from the oppressive silence that often enveloped the two of them whenever singing was mentioned over the past three years. This was a relieved silence, a necessary silence for both of them to digest what had just been said, things they should have said to each other a long time ago.

"Go to your room and rest," Ms. Thanh finally said, standing up and gently patting her son's head like when he was a baby. "Let me cook you a bowl of porridge. Seeing your eyes so swollen, you must be very tired."

Gia Bảo nodded and stood up, but before going up the stairs, he turned to look at his mother one more time. "Mom," he said, "I think grandpa would be very proud of me, if he knew I was going to sing again."

Ms. Thanh smiled, a smile that was both sad and warm, her eyes filled with tears again but this time for a different reason. "I'll definitely be proud, son. I'm always proud of you, whether you sing or not."

Gia Bảo walked up to his room, feeling much more relieved than when he entered the house just an hour ago. He sat down on the edge of the bed, looked at the old guitar leaning against the corner of the cabinet, the guitar that once belonged to his grandfather, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was picking it up not to escape, but to prepare for something really important ahead — the semi-finals were only a few days away, and this time, he didn't want to run away from it anymore.