I am 33 years old, my name is Lam, and I am an ordinary technician at an electronics equipment company. My life is nothing special: not rich, not handsome, not highly educated. But I sincerely wanted to find a partner to build a family with. My mother was deeply worried about me, sighing every day, and finally forced me to go on a blind date with her friend’s daughter.
I reluctantly agreed, but honestly, I had no expectations.
The blind date took place in a rather fancy cafe, the kind of place I would never go to without a reason. The woman named Vy, 28 years old, was dressed lavishly, as if she were heading to a beauty pageant audition. I hadn’t even been seated for a minute when she looked at me from head to toe, as if scanning a QR code.
“What kind of car do you drive?” – was her first question.
I forced a smile: “I ride a motorbike; my house is close by.” “Ah…” – she stammered, her eyes revealing disappointment. She then continued with her questions: “What is your salary? Do you own a house? What do your parents do?” I answered honestly, but as she listened, she grew increasingly bored. She made no effort to hide her contempt, even secretly texting to make fun of me. I sat across from her, feeling like a defective product waiting to be returned. When the staff brought the water, Vy didn’t even look up, just uttering one sentence: “I don’t think we are compatible. I want to find someone with better status. You… ah… try your best.”
The words “try your best” felt like a slap. I stood up, bowed politely, then turned to leave immediately, hoping only to escape this humiliation. After a few steps, a voice suddenly called out from the table next to mine: “Nephew… wait a moment.” I turned around. It was a woman in her late 50s, with a kind face and gentle yet bright eyes. She looked at me as if she had been observing me for a long time. She smiled: “Hey, do you want to meet my daughter?” I was startled, thinking she was just joking.
But she continued softly: “I’ve been watching you all this time. You are polite and have self-respect. I like how you remained quiet rather than arguing. My daughter… she needs someone like you.” Before I could answer, Vy—from the table behind me—sneered. “Auntie, don’t joke around. Men like this are only suitable for… ordinary women.” My words caught in my throat. But the aunt didn’t turn around; she just gently placed her hand on the vacant chair. “Sit down, dear. I want to talk for a moment.” I hesitated for a moment before sitting down. I thought to myself: “Maybe this is just pity, but at least she’s kind to me.” The aunt introduced herself as Hanh, whose husband passed away early, and who had a daughter named Chi, 26 years old this year. I asked what Chi did for a living, and Aunt Hanh hesitated.
That hesitation piqued my curiosity, but all she said was, “She… is kind. But she has endured a difficult life. You will understand when you meet her.” Less than 10 minutes later, Chi appeared. She walked into the cafe, not glamorous or flashy, wearing just a simple cream-colored dress. Chi wasn’t stunningly beautiful, but her eyes held a deep and melancholic quality. She looked at me, slightly surprised, then sat down.
Aunt Hanh whispered, “This is Lam. He… is someone my mother thinks is good.” Chi blushed and gave a slight bow as a greeting. I returned the greeting. Strangely, my heart felt a little warmer – a feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time. The three of us talked for a while, mostly Aunt Hanh and I. Chi didn’t talk much, just smiled and nodded, but with every smile, I felt an unusual comfort. It was only when Aunt Hanh went to the restroom that I quietly asked, “Do you… feel awkward? If your mother is forcing you, I understand.” Chi shook her head: “No. I… really wanted to go on a blind date. But… many people don’t accept me.” I asked, “Why?” She lowered her head: “Because I was in an accident, and I have a scar on one side of my face. My mother said if people only judge by appearance, I shouldn’t bother.” I looked closely; there was indeed a faint scar on the left side of Chi’s face, barely noticeable unless you looked carefully. But I didn’t find it unsightly. On the contrary, I found Chi very gentle. I suddenly blurted out, “I think… you are beautiful.” Chi looked up, her eyes wide. She said nothing, but her eyes were turning red. I knew my words had likely touched the deepest, most hidden pain in her heart.
As we were about to leave, Aunt Hanh gently put her hand on my shoulder: “I know you are not rich. You are not that outstanding. But I have seen many people… you have something that few possess: kindness.” Then she added something that made me stop: “Chi… she deserves to be cherished.” I promised to stay in touch. But unexpectedly, from that day on, my heart kept recalling Chi’s gentle smile, her soft eyes. We started texting. Then we went out for coffee. And gradually, we grew closer. Chi was quiet, but deep. She never demanded anything, never judged me, never compared me to anyone. I felt she possessed qualities that Vy—that arrogant woman—could never have. But one night, Aunt Hanh called me: “Lam, are you free? Chi… she’s crying in her room.” I immediately rushed over. Chi was sitting on the bed, her face buried in her hands. I asked repeatedly until she finally spoke: “Today, at work… a colleague said that if I didn’t have this scar, I would have married a rich man by now. I don’t want to… be a burden to you.” I held her hand: “You are not a burden. That scar does not reduce your value. I like you because of your heart.” Chi burst into tears. Aunt Hanh stood outside the door, quietly wiping her own tears. I understood clearly: this was no longer a blind date. I truly loved this woman. A year later, we got married. It was a small wedding, just a few tables of food in the countryside. Everyone who saw us said I was lucky because my wife was gentle and understanding. When my mother first met Chi, she hugged her and said: “You are so kind, thank you for marrying into my family, Lam.” We lived in a small rented house, but every day was peaceful. Aunt Hanh cooked food and brought it over every weekend. She loved me like her own son. Life seemed to go on like that. Until 3 years later, when I had a work accident, broke my leg, and had to take 6 months off work. I thought: “I’m probably finished. Without income, this small family will struggle to survive.”
But Chi never complained. She worked overtime, sold things online, and patiently cared for me. Aunt Hanh came every day to cook porridge and cheer me up. One night, I looked at the mother and daughter and asked: “Why are you two so kind to me? What did I do to deserve this?” Aunt Hanh smiled: “Because you saw my daughter with all your heart.” I remember those words for the rest of my life.
Then the change came. A major client approached me – asking for my help to install and maintain the electrical system for their entire farm. The job was long-term, highly profitable, and close to home. I took the job. The longer I worked, the more they trusted me and assigned me technical management. In just three years, I saved money and received a share of the profits. By the seventh year after marriage, the farm owner invited me to the office: “Lam, we want to transfer the entire farm. Do you want to buy it? The price is more favorable for those who have been with us for a long time.” I was stunned. But after many years of saving, coupled with a bank loan, I bought it. And only 2 years later, thanks to model expansion, the farm’s value increased tremendously. I sold it again – for exactly 24 billion VND. I looked at the money in the account with trembling hands. Not because I was rich – but because I knew what I needed to prioritize. That evening, I called Chi and Aunt Hanh, and placed a notebook in front of them. Aunt Hanh asked: “What is that, son?” I said, my voice slightly trembling: “The day your friends belittled you, I was the only one who reached out. The day you had no money, I still treated you like a son. The day you were out of a job, I brought you food. The day you were sick, I stayed up all night to take care of you.” I pushed the notebook closer to her. “These are the papers for the house I bought for you. It is entirely under your name. I want you to have a peaceful place for your old age.” Aunt Hanh froze, her hands shaking. I continued: “And here is a savings book with 2 billion, I’m putting it aside so you can take care of yourself in your old age and… so that if Chi and I have children, my mother-in-law will take care of them.” Aunt Hanh burst into sobs. Chi covered her face and wailed. But I didn’t stop. I looked at her and spoke slowly: “There is one more thing… You gave me the most beautiful gift of my life: Chi.” I knelt down and sincerely bowed my head: “Thank you for not letting her daughter live the next day alone and unhappy.” Aunt Hanh hugged me with her trembling arms, as if embracing her own son.
And only then did she tell me the truth I hadn’t expected: “Lam… actually on that day… I watched you both from afar. I was afraid you would reject Chi because of the scar. When I saw you call her beautiful… I knew… I had chosen the right person.” I was speechless. Love, it turns out, doesn’t come from appearance, or from money. It comes from the moment someone dares to believe in the heart of another person. That day, we hugged in the small kitchen. The Aunt cried. Chi cried. As for me, all I could say was to thank God, thank the people, and thank life for allowing me to leave that coffee shop that day with red eyes… but with my heart taken to where it truly belonged.