I never thought my father would be such a meticulous person… and so deeply sentimental.
I was the youngest in the family, with two older siblings. My mother died when I was just over a year old—I couldn’t even say the word “mother.” Three years later, my father remarried.
It was Aunt Cham — a small, quiet woman — who raised me. She cooked porridge and fed it to me with a spoon when I, at age four, looked like a three-year-old girl because of my thinness. She would take me to school and pick me up every afternoon. When I was in first grade, she was the happiest, as if she were her own child.
In my memory, my aunt was not a stranger, but my “mother.”
But my two siblings didn’t think so.
They were both 10 and 13 years old when Aunt Cham came into our lives, and they hated her. They always rebelled against it. Things like:
— “Stepmother? This can’t be good.”
They always urged me to oppose her. The old man even said to me:
— “How naive you are. She’s the only one who will take care of you to win over Dad. She’s just a stepmother.”
They filled my head with suspicion, and told me not to be fooled. Back then, I believed them.
Once, I even took off her clothes as a form of rebellion. I saw her crying alone in her room… and I cried too.
As I got older, I realized that even though we didn’t share the same blood, she treated me better than many mothers. So I decided to stop paying attention to my siblings and started treating her as what she was to me: a mother. He called her “Mama Cham.”
Once, I saw my father hugging her, comforting her, telling her to be patient with her children because they still hadn’t gotten over their mother’s death. She just nodded and wiped her tears. She didn’t scream, she didn’t raise her hand, even when my siblings insulted her. Maybe that’s why they took advantage of her kindness more.
Later, my siblings got married and moved houses. Only Daddy, Mommy Cham was left at home.
Earlier this year, Dad’s health got worse. I don’t know what happened, but he started treating Mama Cham coldly, talking to her harshly, as if he hated her.
Once, when my siblings came with their wives and children, Dad threw Mama Cham out of the house in front of everyone. He didn’t say a word, he just kept quiet, hoping that Papa would calm down.
Last month, Dad called a family meeting. I was the last to arrive because of an unexpected meeting. When I entered the house, I noticed the tension in the atmosphere. Mama Cham was hurrying to pack her things. My dad said in a cold voice:
— “From now on, you and I have nothing to do with each other. Get out of my sight and don’t bother me anymore.”
I was scared. I asked her what was the matter, but she didn’t answer. She just looked at me with a sad smile and said:
— “Don’t talk, son. It’s okay. I’m leaving.”
The image of her thin figure dragging her suitcase to the door is something I will never forget. I wanted to follow her, but Daddy shouted at me not to.
Two weeks later, Dad passed away.
Waking up sober. Mama Cham returned
I looked for him. He lived in a small house, but it was clean and bright. He opened the door with his typical soft smile.
After talking to him, I understood that Dad had done the right thing. If my siblings had known about it then, he would not have had peace.
Since that day, I have visited him often. At first, I only brought gifts from the village: rice, milk, fresh vegetables. But as time went by, I no longer lost my promise… but out of love.
I remembered the bowl of porridge he blew on to cool it when I was a child. I remembered his steps outside the school. I remembered his patient look when I broke a precious vase… and he didn’t scold me.
One day, I found him mending a sweater under a tree in the yard. I left the fruit basket on the table and said shyly:
— “Auntie… I want to put incense on Dad. But… I want to do it here. I feel like his soul is here with you.”
She didn’t answer. She just looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. Then she went inside, took out a small ceramic censer, cleaned it carefully, and handed it to me.
Then the most unexpected thing happened.
My two brothers came up to me. They were serious and quiet. Finally, the eldest spoke:
— “We already know about the house. An acquaintance from the land office told us about it.”
I held my breath. I was scared at this moment.
“At first we were angry,” said the second, “we felt that Dad had betrayed us.”
The eldest nodded.
— “But we remember… Who cooked without Mom? Who went to the parents’ meetings? Who sewed every shirt and never asked for anything in return?”
Silence.
— “We wanted to see her. Not to ask for anything, but to ask for forgiveness.”
A few days later, the three of us went to Mama Cham’s house. She was surprised, a little worried.
“Sister…” I told her, but the older brother came closer.
— “We didn’t come for the house. We came because… we were fools. A mother like you has endured so much without saying a word.”
Mama Cham burst into