The afternoon heat pressed heavy over our small village, turning the dirt road into cracked, brittle dust. I, Hanh, crouched behind our hut, gathering twigs for the evening fire. My hands were rough and blistered from years of labor.
At the doorway, my ten-year-old son, Minh, stood watching me. He had his father’s eyes—curious, deep, and full of questions I didn’t know how to answer.
“Mom,” he asked softly, “why don’t I have a father like the other kids?”
The question cut through me like a knife. For ten years I’d prepared for that moment, rehearsing words that never felt right. I forced a smile. “Come help me gather these branches.”
He knelt beside me. “Duc’s dad came to school today. Lan’s father brought her a new backpack. So where’s mine?”
I swallowed hard. “Your father loved you very much,” I whispered. “But he had to go away.”
“When will he come back?”
“I don’t know, my son. I don’t know.”
Ten Years of Silence
I met Thanh when I was twenty-two. He was from the city—clean shirts, polished shoes, and a warm, confident smile that made my small world feel big. He said he’d be staying in our village for the summer, and soon we were inseparable.
He taught me about skyscrapers and city lights; I taught him how to read the sky before the rain. When I told him I was pregnant, his eyes shone. “I’ll go home tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll talk to my parents and come back for you. We’ll get married.”
He kissed my hands and left smiling. I waited three days. Then a week. Then months. He never returned.
I sent letters to the address he gave me—no reply. His aunt said she hadn’t heard from him either. Then came the whispers.
