My name is Linh, I’m twenty, a final-year design student.

People often tell me I seem older than my age — maybe because I grew up watching my mother shoulder the world alone. My father passed away early, and she never remarried. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, was for me.

Then one day, during a volunteer project, I met Brother Nam — the head of the technical team, nearly twenty years older than me.

He was calm, respectful, and carried an air of quiet sadness that somehow felt familiar.

At first, I admired him from afar. But the more we talked, the more his gentle voice and thoughtful eyes made my heart race.

Nam had a stable job, a steady life, and a painful past — a failed marriage, no children.
He once said quietly,
“I once lost something very precious. Now, I just want to live right.”

Our relationship grew slowly — not dramatic, just sincere. He loved gently, as if afraid to break something fragile.

People whispered,
“She’s still so young. Why be with a man twice her age?”
But I didn’t care. With him, I found peace.

Then one day, Nam said,
“Linh, I want to meet your mother. I don’t want to hide this anymore.”

I hesitated — Mom was strict and protective. But if our love was true, I had nothing to fear.

When the day came, Nam dressed neatly and brought daisies — my mom’s favorite flower, something I’d once mentioned to him.

We arrived at our old house hand in hand. Mom was watering the plants when she saw us. She froze.

For a moment, the world stopped moving.

Before I could speak, Mom dropped the watering can, rushed forward, and hugged Nam tightly, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“My God… is that you, Nam?!”

I stood there, stunned.

Nam trembled, his eyes red.
“You… you’re Hoa?”

I stared in disbelief. Did they know each other?

Mom sobbed,
“Twenty years… and you’re still alive…”

That was when everything unraveled.

Before she met my father, my mother had her first love — Nam.
They loved deeply, but an accident tore them apart.

Everyone believed Nam had died.
Mom grieved for years, until she met my father — the man who slowly healed her heart. They married, and I was born.

But fate was cruel. My father later died of illness, leaving us alone.

Nam, it turned out, had survived the accident but lost his memory. Strangers took him in. All he could recall was “a woman who loved daisies.”

When he met me at the project, he said I felt “familiar.” Now I understood why.

Even my name, Linh, was my mother’s middle name from her youth.

It felt as if fate itself had played a bittersweet trick.

Tears blurred my vision.
“You mean… he was the one from before?”

Mom nodded, crying softly.
“Yes, my dear. But don’t worry — you share no blood. I just never imagined that the man I once loved would become the one my daughter loves now.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Finally, Nam spoke, his voice breaking.
“Linh, forgive me. I didn’t know… I never meant to hurt you.”

That night, I sat quietly on the balcony. Mom came over and gently placed her hand on my shoulder.
“My daughter,” she said, “love is never wrong. But sometimes, fate doesn’t bring people together to last — only to teach us how to forgive and say goodbye.”