« For ten years, I raised my son without his father—the whole town laughed at me—until the day luxury cars pulled up in front of my house and the boy’s real father made everyone cry. »

It was a scorching afternoon in the village.

I — Hanh — was crouching, gathering dry branches to light the fire.

At the door, my ten-year-old son looked at me with his innocent eyes.

— Mom, why don’t I have a dad, like my friends?

I couldn’t answer. Ten years have passed, and I still haven’t found an answer to that question.

Years of mockery and humiliation

When I became pregnant, rumors began to spread throughout the village:

« What a disgrace! Pregnant without a husband! A disgrace to her parents! »

I gritted my teeth and endured everything.

My belly growing ever rounder, I worked wherever I could: weeding, harvesting rice, washing dishes in a small restaurant.
Some people threw garbage in front of my house, others spoke loudly as they passed me.

“The father of your child had to flee… who would want to bear such shame?”

They were unaware that the man I loved had been overjoyed to learn that I was expecting a child.

He told me he would go home to talk to his parents and ask for their blessing for our marriage.

I believed it with all my heart.

But the next day, he disappeared without a trace.

From that day on, I waited for him every morning, every evening — in vain.
Years passed, and I raised my son alone.

There were nights when I hated him for the pain he reminded me of; others when I cried, praying that his father was still alive… even though he had long since forgotten me.

Ten years of struggle

To send my son to school, I worked tirelessly.

I saved every penny, swallowed every tear.

When the other children made fun of him because he didn’t have a father, I would hug him and say:

« You have your mother, my son. And that’s all you need. »

But people’s words were like knives, piercing my heart again and again.
At night, while he slept, I stayed by the lamp, thinking about the man I had loved—his smile, his gentle eyes—and I wept silently.

The day the luxury cars stopped in front of my house

One rainy morning, I was mending my son’s clothes when I heard the deafening roar of several engines.

The neighbors came out, intrigued.

In front of my modest house, several clean, shiny black cars were lined up — clearly from the city.

The murmurs began: