The Grandparents Demanded That the Three Grandchildren Give Them 20 Million Dong Every Month—Even Though They Once Drove the Orphaned Children Away
The luxurious mansion of the three siblings—led by Hải—stood in one of the most expensive districts in the city. That day, it was filled with lights and flowers. It marked the fifteenth anniversary of their parents’ death.
All the guests had already left.
Only the three siblings remained—along with two uninvited visitors: their paternal grandfather and grandmother.
The grandfather took a drag from his cigarette and blew thick smoke onto the imported leather sofa. His voice was hoarse, yet filled with authority.
“You’ve all made something of yourselves now. One of you is a director, another a department head. As for us old people—we’re sick, and medicine is expensive. I’ve done the math. Every month, the three of you should pool together and give us 20 million. Consider it repayment of your debt for your bloodline—the Nguyễn family.”
The youngest stopped pouring water; it overflowed from the glass.
Ba smiled bitterly and seemed ready to speak, but the eldest—Hải—stopped him with a subtle gesture. Hải quietly looked at the two elderly figures sitting there as if they owned everything.
“Twenty million a month?” Hải asked calmly.
“Of course!” the grandmother snapped, scanning the luxurious house. “Look at this place—huge house, cars filling the yard. To you, that amount is nothing. We share the same blood—if you don’t take care of your grandparents, who will?”
The word “blood” poured boiling heat into Hải’s memories, dragging him back fifteen years.
Back then, their parents had died in a car accident, leaving behind three children. Hải was twelve, Ba was ten, and the youngest was only five.
After the funeral, the grandparents arrived. Everyone thought they had come to take the children in.
But they hadn’t.
They came to divide the land their parents left behind—and then coldly said:
“Those children bring bad luck. They killed their parents. If we take them in, they’ll bring disaster upon the whole family.”
The three siblings were left alone in a broken house near the river dike.
To survive, Hải and Ba waded into foul drainage canals to catch crabs and snails. In winter, the cold cut like knives; Hải’s hands cracked and bled.
One stormy night, they ran out of rice completely. The youngest cried until he had no strength left.
Desperate, Hải gathered his courage and went to his grandparents’ house—a solid red-roofed home just two alleys away.
Trembling at the gate, he called out:
“Grandma… please give us a little rice… my little brother is starving…”
The cold iron gate opened—
But there was no rice.
The grandmother held a broom and drove him away like a cursed spirit.
“Get out! I told you never to come here! I owe you nothing! Go beg somewhere else!”
The gate slammed shut.
Hải walked home silently, tears mixing with rain—salty and burning.
That night, as the three siblings clung to one another, waiting for hunger to take them, Aunt Tư arrived—a widowed woman from the end of the village. Poor, childless, a vegetable seller at the market.
She carried a pot of hot porridge and gently fed the youngest.
“Eat, child… you’ve suffered too much…” she said, wiping away tears.
From that day on, Aunt Tư became their only support.
She skipped breakfast so the children could eat more rice. She mended their torn clothes. She taught the youngest how to read.
The siblings grew like wild grass—but were nourished by the pure love of a woman who shared no blood with them.
When Hải received his acceptance letter to the Polytechnic University, the entire village celebrated—but the siblings cried. Where would the money come from?
Ba and the youngest planned to quit school and work to support their brother.
That night, Aunt Tư came again. With trembling hands, she took out a handkerchief from her old cloth bag—inside were three taels of gold.
“This is my savings for old age,” she said. “One tael for each of you. Sell it, Hải—for tuition and travel. Ba, youngest—study well. Don’t give up. My life is poor and uneducated. Yours must rise through learning.”
The three siblings fell to their knees and wept.
Those three taels of gold were not just money—they were life, future, and a way out of darkness.
Fifteen years passed.
The three taels bloomed into three successful adults.
Hải returned to the present.
He looked at the grandparents and smiled bitterly. He stood, went inside, and returned with a thick envelope, placing it on the table.
“Here is the 20 million.”
The grandmother’s eyes lit up as she grabbed and counted the cash.
“I knew it! Next time, just transfer it monthly.”
“No,” Hải replied firmly. “This is the first—and the last.”
“What did you say?!” the grandfather shouted angrily. “You’re ungrateful?!”
Hải stood tall, his voice low but clear.
“You’re right—blood matters. But blood that watches grandchildren starve and cannot even offer a bowl of rice… blood that drives children into the cold—that blood is too cold for us to accept.”
Ba stepped forward, eyes red.
“When we were hungry, where were you? When my brother passed university and worked construction to survive, where were you? This 20 million repays the debt of you giving birth to our parents. From today on, please do not return.”
The grandmother flushed with rage.
“Ungrateful wretches! I’ll shame you before the world!”
“That’s up to you,” said the youngest—while gently guiding an elderly woman into the room.
It was Aunt Tư.
Her back was bent, her hair white—but she wore her finest clothes, her face gentle.
Hải knelt and helped her sit in the seat reserved for parents.
“She is the one we will care for all our lives. She sold her old-age savings so we could live. To us, the one who fed us when hungry, clothed us when cold, and gave hope in despair—she is our true mother.”
“Aunt Tư,” Hải said through tears, “we’ve secured your retirement. Every month, we’ll give you 20 million so you can attend temple and do charity.”
Aunt Tư smiled and shook her head.
“I’m old. I don’t need that. You are good people—that is my happiness.”
The grandparents left silently, holding the envelope that felt like lead with shame.
No one chased them away.
But they knew—they no longer had a place in that house.
Inside the warm home, laughter rose again.
And that was when they understood:
“Blood creates the body—but love creates the human being.”