I sat on the sofa, watching the clock strike seven in the evening. The kitchen was filled with laughter and laughter. The whole family was happily preparing to celebrate the birthday of my son Dung, who had just been promoted.
My daughter-in-law Thao was busy choosing her dress, while my little niece was running around the house laughing. The scene was so hot that I felt a little sad. It had been a long time since I had seen the whole family happy.
I smiled gently and asked:
“Mom, I have changed. Can we go?”
Dung looked up and forced a smile:
“Ah… Mom, the car is full, and the restaurant is crowded. Let me separate you there another day.”
The words were gentle but like a knife piercing my heart.
I stopped, trying to keep a smile:
“Well, the car is full. You can stay home.”
Dung quickly added:
“I’m sorry mom, I’ll just go next.”
I nodded, watching them talk as they walked out the door. Their laughter died down, leaving only the ticking of the clock in the spacious house.
I sat down, my eyes watering. Not from anger, but from a sense of abandonment.
Two years ago, after my husband died, I moved in with Dung and his wife. I thought I would have a peaceful old age with my children and grandchildren. But then, words like “Mom, don’t clean the dishes in the kitchen that I haven’t washed yet”, or “Don’t buy things for the baby, I’m afraid it will be in bad taste”, kept coming.
Every time like that, I just kept quiet. I was afraid of disturbing, of making my daughter-in-law uncomfortable, of embarrassing Dung.
But now, when I heard “The car is full, stay home, Mom!”, I suddenly felt like I had crossed off the list of relatives a long time ago.
Closing the door, I stood up.
I quietly opened the closet and took out the old suitcase – the one I used to bring to my husband’s house in 1985. I folded each row of clothes and put them neatly.
On the altar, the picture of my husband looked at me with a stern, but also sympathetic look.
“Sir, I think I should go. I feel redundant here.”
I left a note on the table:
“Dear, I’m going out to the countryside for a few days. Don’t worry.”
Then I pulled out the suitcase, leaving that house at night.
I returned to the small country house where I was born. The smell of smoke in the kitchen and the smell of the fields made me feel alive again. The neighbor saw me and was surprised:
“Miss Lan is back? I thought your son was with you?”
I smiled:
“She’s busy, I’ll be back to look after the garden in a few days.”
No one knew that I had no intention of returning.
I started a new life: growing vegetables, raising chickens, selling shrimp, and babysitting for families in the neighborhood. Life was simple but full of laughter.
Every night, I sat and listened to the radio, occasionally thinking about my son, daughter-in-law, and little grandson. I missed their voices, I missed the meals we had together, but I didn’t dare to call. I was afraid of hearing that indifferent voice again.
Three months later, on a rainy afternoon, I heard the car stop in front of the gate. The door opened and Dung came in, her face pale.
“Mom! My God, you’re still alive!”
I was shocked:
“Live? What do you mean?”
Dung burst into tears and knelt down:
“For the past three months, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! That day… when my family and I came home from dinner… the house was on fire, Mom!”
I was stunned.
“Burning…?”
Dung nodded, tears streaming down her face:
“The fire started in the kitchen due to an electrical short circuit. I thought my mom was home… they only found slippers and a suitcase. I thought… my mom was dead.”
I was stunned. My whole body went cold.
Thao came over, hugged me, and cried:
“Mom, all this time I have been tortured. I made a mistake… I shouldn’t have left you at home that day… If you had stayed, maybe…”
I shook my daughter-in-law’s hair and sighed softly:
“If I had stayed that day, I might have been lying in the ashes. You know, everything happens for a reason.”
My whole family was sitting in the small house in the countryside. Dung bowed her head:
“Mom, I’m sorry. I was so busy working and taking care of my family that I forgot that you were the one who needed to be loved the most.”
I smiled gently:
“Son, I don’t blame you. But I want you to understand: when a mother starts packing to leave, it means that a part of her has died.”
Dung held my hand, choked up:
“From now on, Mom, come live with me, okay? The house is new and very big. There’s still room in my car for you forever.”
I looked at her, tears welling up, nodded slightly.
Three months later, my family returned to the countryside and rebuilt a new house on the old foundation. I replanted the vegetable beds and my grandchildren chatted around the garden.
One day, Dung laughed:
“Mom, I’m going to make a sign for the vegetable garden. Name it.”
I smiled:
“Let’s call it A Place for Mom to Sit , okay?”
The whole family fell silent. Then they burst into laughter while crying.
Ending:
Sometimes, a careless word is enough to make a mother feel lost in her own home. But a mother’s love – like an underground stream – even if buried, will still flow silently forever.
The moment I pulled out my suitcase that day, I thought everything was lost. But it turns out, in that moment, I saved my entire family.