My name is Hưng, 32 years old, a software engineer who has lived in Saigon for more than ten years. Ever since I left our hometown on the outskirts of Nam Định to study and work, I rarely came back. I usually only returned for a few days during New Year. My parents worked hard all their lives, so when my career finally stabilized, I had only one wish: to build a dignified, comfortable home where they could rest in their old age.
About a year ago, I sent more than ₱2.3 million—almost all my savings—to build them a modern single-story house with a Thai-style roof, separate bedrooms for each of them, a yard for gardening, a big kitchen for my mother, and a living room so my father would “never feel embarrassed inviting relatives over.”
On the day of the housewarming, I couldn’t go home because I was buried in a major project at work. I only saw the house through a video my mother recorded on her old phone. They looked so happy on that tiny screen. I promised them, “When Christmas comes, I’ll stay longer with both of you.”
But life doesn’t always go the way we plan. That Christmas, my company ran into serious problems. Once again, I couldn’t go home.
At last, this July, I finally found the chance to go home—unexpectedly and without telling anyone. In my mind, I could still picture my parents sitting on the veranda of the new house, fanning themselves with dried banana leaves and smiling wide the moment they saw me.
But…
Everything I imagined was wrong.
I arrived at the end of our alley just before noon. The muddy path I once knew was now fully paved. Our village had changed a lot in just a few years: two-story houses stood everywhere, but my parents’ small corner of land remained quiet.
But what made me stop in my tracks was this:
The door of the new house was wide open. Children’s clothes were hanging all over the veranda. Small bicycles were scattered across the yard.
I stood at the gate, my heart pounding.
Then I saw a woman, around thirty, running out of the house holding a bottle of fish sauce.
“Oh—who are you looking for?” she asked.
“This… this is my parents’ house, isn’t it?” I replied, my voice breaking.
Her eyes widened in surprise, then filled with worry.
“Is this the house of Uncle Đình and Aunt Hà? I… I’m only staying here temporarily. Maybe… your parents are in the storage shed at the back…”
It felt like someone squeezed my chest.
I walked straight to the back. The old shed was still there—the same one I told them to demolish last year, though they never got around to it. The wooden door was rotten; one hinge was almost broken. I pushed it open, and dust fell everywhere.
Inside, I saw my mother lying on a folding bed. My father sat on a plastic chair, repairing a broken basket with some wire.
The space was cramped and unbearably hot.
“Ma… Pa…” I called, my throat tightening.
My mother sat up, smiling happily. “Oh my, Hưng! You didn’t even tell us you were coming! I’ll cook something for you.”
I froze. Seeing the scene before me, anger surged inside my chest.
“Why… why are you here?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Then who is the new house for?”
My father looked a bit surprised by my reaction, but he remained calm.
“Come on, Son, let’s go outside. It’s hot here. Don’t rush—let us explain.”
But I couldn’t wait. My voice rose almost into a shout.
“Why are you living like this? And why are other people inside the new house?”
My mother grew anxious and glanced at my father. He sighed deeply.
“It’s a long story, Son…”
“I want to hear it now,” I said, biting my lip.
The woman from earlier had followed us to the shed, still holding the fish sauce bottle. Softly, she spoke:
“Please don’t blame your mother. It’s because of our situation…”
I looked at her, patience slipping. “And who are you?”
“I’m Lan… daughter of Uncle Thịnh… He passed away last year. My husband died of illness the same year. Our house was demolished for the expressway project and the compensation wasn’t enough to buy new land. My child and I… we had nowhere to go. Aunt Hà took pity on us and allowed us to stay in the new house temporarily…”
My eyebrows tightened.
“Temporarily… for a year? While my parents stay in a shed?”
My father spoke gently.
“They were thrown out during a storm. The new house had just been finished; we hadn’t even moved in yet. We felt sorry for the mother and child, so we let them stay for a few months. We didn’t expect her treatment and their compensation case to take this long. And we still had this shed. It’s small, but we’re used to it.”
I stood there speechless. It felt like a slap to the face.
My mother added softly:
“The house is big… and we’re old. We can live anywhere. Lan is kind, and her life is very hard. I just thought… helping others is also a way of building good karma for you children.”
I looked again at the hot, dusty shed… then at my parents, living in a place that should have been gone long ago. And then I looked at the clean new house with its shiny blue roof—where I could hear children laughing inside.
Pain and anger swirled inside me. I wanted to speak, but my lips trembled. My parents were always like this—sacrificing without question, to the point of losing too much.
That afternoon, I parked my car at a neighbor’s house. They told me more about Lan: her son, Bi, was five and often sick; Lan worked at a sewing factory in town, commuting nearly ten kilometers a day; her salary barely enough to survive; her husband had died in a traffic accident while delivering goods.
The neighbors praised Lan as kind, hardworking, and patient—just terribly unlucky.
That night, after the simple dinner my mother cooked in their makeshift kitchen, I sat outside the shed, staring at the illuminated windows of the new house. My mind was spinning. I felt overwhelming pity for my parents—but when I looked at Lan and the child, I felt another kind of ache… the kind you feel for people with no choices left.
I didn’t want to take the house away from them.
But I also couldn’t accept that my parents were the ones suffering.
And so I made a decision:
Tomorrow morning, I would fix everything—the best way I could.
The next morning, after my parents finished breakfast, I spoke.
“I want all of us to sit down for a moment.”
Lan, who had planned to take her son to school, was invited to stay. From the look in her eyes, she probably thought I was about to kick them out.
I took a deep breath.
“That house was built for my parents. I don’t want them sleeping in a shed anymore. And Lan… you and Bi… you also can’t stay there long-term.”
Lan lowered her head, her voice trembling.
“I understand… I was already planning to rent once the compensation case is settled. It’s just… I’m afraid your parents might feel sad…”
I softened my voice.
“No one needs to be sad. But we need a better solution—something that doesn’t require this kind of sacrifice.”
My mother’s voice shook.
“Son, you say that… but I really feel sorry for Lan and her child…”
“I feel sorry for them too,” I replied. “That’s why I want to help for real.”
All of them looked at me, unsure of what I was planning.
I continued.
“I have some savings. Not as much as last year, but enough to buy a small house here in the village for Lan and Bi. An old house, but better than renting. If Lan agrees, I’ll put it under her name. No payment needed.”
Lan burst into tears.
“Kuya… why are you so kind to me? We’re not even related…”
I shook my head.
“This isn’t about kindness. This is what my parents taught me. If they could sacrifice for a neighbor, then I should carry that forward too. But my parents deserve to live in the home that was meant for them.”
My father looked at me for a long moment, his eyes slightly red.
“You’ve really grown up… I thought you’d be angry about all this.”
With tears forming, I smiled.
“Oh, I was angry… but last night, I realized something. You live your lives guided by gratitude. And gratitude… also needs support. Let me handle the rest.”
My mother hugged me gently.
“Thank you, Son… and I’m sorry. I didn’t think enough about how you might feel…”
I held her tightly.
For the first time in years, I felt like a small child again in the arms of my parents.
Three weeks later, I found a small single-story house in the village, just a few hundred meters from my parents’ home. I renovated it, bought Bi a new bed, and bought Lan a sewing machine so she could take on more work at home.
On moving day, Lan cried as she hugged my parents.
“I will remember this kindness for the rest of my life…”
My mother only smiled.
“Oh dear, we’re just neighbors.”
That night, my parents finally moved into their own new house. I sat in the spacious living room, watching my father turn on the TV and my mother arrange dish after dish, insisting on placing each one in exactly the right spot. They were so happy they even argued about where to put the tea set.
My chest felt lighter.
That night, we sat together on the veranda. My father poured a little liquor into my cup and spoke slowly.
“You know, Son… back then, Tito Thịnh’s family was very poor. Once, I had an accident in the fields. He carried me all the way from the rice paddies to the clinic. And when your mother was pregnant with you and often dizzy, his family would run to bring coconut water, or lend us rice. Helping Lan now… is simply repaying the debt of kindness.”
I was silent for a long time.
Then I said quietly, “I understand now, Pa. But you also have to let us repay our debt of gratitude to you.”
My father smiled.
“Now you understand. You built this house. And buying another house for Lan and her son… we know you didn’t do that out of pride. That’s why we’re at peace.”
My mother nodded.
“What matters is… from now on, come home more often to visit us, okay?”
I smiled, pouring hot tea.
“I promise. I’ll come home more often. And I won’t let you ‘collect good karma for me’ while suffering anymore.”
We all laughed.
Our laughter floated into the night air.
Three months later, I received a letter from Lan. In it, she wrote:
“Kuya Hưng, I was promoted to team leader at the sewing factory. Because of the sewing machine you gave me, I can work faster now. I plan to renovate the house next year and open a small tailoring shop. If everything goes well, I want to return the money to you—not because I want to erase my debt, but so you can use it to help others, just as your parents helped me.”
I cried reading her letter.
At the end, she added:
“I think… the very house you built for your parents is the one that saved me and my son. Thank you—and thank your parents for their kind hearts.”
I folded the letter, warmth spreading through my chest.
And I understood:
Sometimes what we think we’ve lost… returns to us in a better form.
Whenever I go home to the province now, I see my parents sitting on the veranda of their new house, the scene as peaceful as a painting. My father still drinks his tea; my mother still tells stories about the neighbors—including “kind Lan whom God blessed.”
And I realized:
The house I built wasn’t just a home for my parents.
It was a seed of kindness—quietly growing through the way my parents choose to live.
That seed, I will carry for the rest of my life.