Chapter 3 — When the Spider Plant Turned Black

Since I came to live in this house, I have slowly come to understand a chilling truth: certain expressions are not meant for you to look at, but rather to serve as a noose slipping quietly around your neck. My mother-in-law, Ma Que Phan, puts on an immaculate display of gentleness before the outside world. Whenever neighbors cross paths with her, they invariably praise her immense fortune—blessed with a dutiful son, a virtuous daughter-in-law, and a household kept in pristine order. Without fail, she would wave her hands dismissively, offering a humble, self-deprecating smile.

I possess no such good fortune, she would sigh, I only pray that the two of them will soon bless us with a child.

Each time she uttered those words, her hand would inevitably rest upon my shoulder. That skeletal, chillingly cold palm, even separated from my skin by a layer of fabric, never failed to send a violent shudder down my spine. Chen Nhan would stand beside us, offering a placid, agreeable smile.

Mother, do not pressure her so.

His tone always sounded as though he were gallantly shielding me from an unfair burden. Yet the moment we crossed our threshold and the door clicked shut behind us, his demeanor would shift entirely, whispering with quiet accusation: You must stop making your mother lose face like that. I would retort in bewilderment: I did not even say a word.

Your attitude was entirely wrong.

She publicly pressures me to conceive in front of half the neighborhood, and I am simply supposed to stand there beaming with joy?

He would release a heavy, weary sigh.

Everyone behaves this way.

Everyone behaves this way. Those four words became the ultimate shield he relied upon for every occasion. Even the bizarre ritual of his mother’s steeped herbal water was normalized under this overarching excuse. Every single morning, she would carry the wooden basin over. Every single evening, she would interrogate me to ensure I had soaked my feet. Gradually, I was forced to master the art of performance. My right foot had to appear convincingly damp. The designated drying towel had to carry the precise artificial scent of dampness. A trace of brownish tea sediment had to stain the bottom of the basin. The only silent witness to the truth was the spider plant blooming out on the balcony. Every time I secretly poured that sinister tea water into its soil, the plant seemed to gorge itself, its leaves growing noticeably thicker with each passing day. The sparse, fragile fronds that had initially filled the pot now sprouted wildly, stretching into unnaturally long, creeping vines. I once mustered the courage to brush my fingers against them. The creeping stems felt chillingly alien, unlike any normal vegetation. The green of the leaves was unnaturally deep, their margins edged with a faint, bruised blackness.

One dead of night, I woke up parched and slipped quietly into the dark, unlit living room. Through the glass pane of the balcony door, the silhouette of the potted spider plant cast upon the tiled floor looked unsettlingly like a cascade of disheveled human hair. I froze in my tracks. A murmur of voices drifted softly from the direction of the kitchen. It was my mother-in-law speaking.

It is still not enough.

The second voice belonged to Chen Nhan.

Mother, you must not be so glaringly obvious about it. She is beginning to grow suspicious.

My mother-in-law lowered her voice further, dropping it to a raspy hiss.

Her constitution is naturally weak. If we do not use potent remedies, nothing will ever come of it.

But what if she refuses to cooperate?

She will have no choice in the matter.

My fingers tightened around the glass of water until my knuckles turned deathly pale. Chen Nhan’s voice floated through the dark again: Lately, she has taken to staring obsessively at that plant on the balcony. My mother-in-law fell silent for a long, calculating moment.

Dispose of that plant tomorrow morning.

I nearly dropped the glass onto the floor. The following morning, true to her word, my mother-in-law stepped out onto the balcony wearing heavy rubber gloves. By the time I rushed out in a panic, she had already lifted the pot from its wrought-iron stand.

Mother, what on earth are you doing?

She offered a thin, unconvincing smile.

The leaves have grown entirely out of hand, attracting all sorts of pests. I am merely taking it downstairs to throw it away.

I lunged forward, my hands gripping the rim of the pot. I brought this plant here myself.

The contrived smile slowly drained from her face.

It is nothing more than a wretched patch of weeds. Why on earth would you insist on keeping it?

I stared straight into her eyes.

Because I like it.

Chen Nhan emerged from the bedroom, his hair still messy from sleep.

What is the disturbance this time?

My mother-in-law’s eyes instantly welled up with practiced tears.

I was merely trying to tidy up the balcony, and she suddenly flew into a rage at me.

Chen Nhan turned his gaze toward me, his expression hardened with disapproval.

Ha Vu, it is merely a potted plant. You are being far too sensitive.

I pulled the pot tightly against my chest. The slick, cold vines pressed firmly against my forearms. This was the first time I refused to take a single step backward.

Today, no one is permitted to touch it.

From that day onward, the atmosphere within the household grew heavy and oppressive, as though the air itself had been smothered beneath a damp, suffocating cloth. No one dared to articulate the underlying tension aloud. Yet every movement made by each member of the household was fraught with cautious probing. My mother-in-law stopped bringing the basin directly into my presence. Instead, she left the pre-mixed vessel of water right outside the threshold of the bathroom, draping a clean towel neatly across its rim like a silent, inescapable decree.

I, too, ceased pouring the entirety of the dark tea water into the spider plant. I began siphoning off a small portion instead. After meticulously cleaning an empty mineral water bottle, I filled it halfway with the dark brown liquid and secreted it away in the deepest compartment of an old handbag tucked far inside the wardrobe. I fully intended to take it somewhere and seek answers from someone who knew better. Yet exactly who I should consult was a question I had not yet resolved. Should I simply march straight into a hospital?