The children skirted around the kitchen, headed for the thick fence in the back. There, they would crawl through a secret hole to get to the plot of land my parents had given Mrs. Tú to build her own home, but on which she’d grown fruit trees instead.

I sank into the cradle of our front yard. It was mid-morning and the sun was drawing its ball of fire across the sky. An ox cart rolled past our gate. My village was alive around me. I inhaled its energy deep into my lungs.

My Father’s Gift

Hà N?i, 1975

“Be patient. Be patient.” I laughed. Pushing Black Dots and Pink Nose out of the way, I dumped bran mixed with chopped water spinach into their trough. The animals buried their mouths in the food, chomping, their tails wagging.

“H??ng, are you home? Anybody home?” a voice called. Wiping my hands against my pants, I rushed to the door, pulling it open. Auntie Duyên. She stood slender in the morning light.

“I still can’t believe how much you’ve grown.” She beamed. “What a pretty young woman you’ve become, and you’re getting fat.”

“It’s great to see you, Auntie.” I grinned, happy that Auntie Duyên called me fat. Everyone I knew was trying to gain weight, but how could they, with so little food?

At the dining table, I pulled out a chair for Auntie Duyên and ran to the kitchen. With my aunt here, it was almost as if my father were home. Auntie Duyên was the only sibling my father had. Their parents had died young. They did odd jobs to support each other growing up.

Bringing back a pot of green tea, I found my aunt in front of Uncle Thu?n’s altar, incense sticks smoldering between her palms. She bowed her head in silence. Grandma had taken apart the altar only to have her secret revealed: a friend of my mother had passed by when Grandma wasn’t home, telling my mother how sorry he was for her loss. I would never forget how long my mother had cried, clutching Uncle Thu?n’s clothes against her chest. I’m not proud of this now, but at that time I felt as if all the rivers of her tears had flown toward the spirit of my uncle, leaving her motherhood for me dry.

Auntie Duyên sat down at the table. “Is your mother feeling better? Is she home?”

I nodded, trying not to spill the tea as I poured it. “Mama . . . I think she’s sleeping.” I gestured toward my parents’ bedroom.

Auntie Duyên looked up at the clock. “Let me try and talk to her again.” She emptied her cup, then carried the teapot into the room.

I wondered how long it’d take for Aunt Duyên to come out, the corners of her mouth sagging with disappointment. My mother had managed to disappoint all of her visitors, including her younger sister. Poor Auntie H?nh, who’d traveled all the way from Thanh Hóa Province, just to see her.

I tried to read my textbooks, but words were empty and colorless. I had to go back to school soon, otherwise I’d be kicked out. The door to my mother’s room was still closed. Pretending to sweep the floor, I tiptoed across to it, putting my ear against the wood. Murmurs and occasional sobbing. My mother’s voice. I closed my eyes, listening, but the murmurs melted into the air before their meaning could reach me.

The clock struck eleven. I lit the coal stove, boiling water for a spinach soup. In a clay pot, I stewed a couple of mullets with fish sauce, chili, and pepper. Pouring rice into another pot, I washed it carefully to get rid of any rice weevil. Normally I had to mix corn, manioc, or sweet potato with rice to fill our stomachs, but we were having a special guest today. So, rice for lunch. I hoped Auntie Duyên would appreciate the food. It had to be difficult for her. She worked in a garment factory and was being paid in food coupons. Like my father and uncles, her husband had gone to the battlefield. She lived by the Red River, and had to take care of two young children.

Noon approached. The fish simmered. The air smelled so delicious, I put out my tongue to lick it. I tasted the spinach soup. It was so yummy I had to have another spoonful. Glancing first at my mother’s bedroom, I reached for the rice pot. Just one spoon, one only.

Putting the rice into my mouth, I was yet to chew when a sound clicked at the front door. “H??ng, I’m home.” Grandma’s voice. I swallowed so fast, the rice glided like fire down my throat. I kicked the spoon into a kitchen corner, wiping my mouth against my shirtsleeve.

“Is the food ready? I’m starving.” Grandma pushed her bike inside.

My smile must be crooked. I signaled toward the bedroom. “Auntie Duyên is here. She got Mama to talk.”

Grandma brought a finger to her lips. “Let them.”

I ferried bowls and chopsticks to the table. My mother was talking, she must be feeling better. I imagined our meal to be a happy reunion lunch, where I’d sit next to her, she’d praise my cooking, fill my bowl, and urge me to eat; her tender voice would tell me to stop worrying about her and go back to class.

But when Auntie Duyên and my mother came to the table, a heavy silence shrouded our meal. Grandma tried to keep the conversation flowing by asking Auntie Duyên about her job.

“We’re producing by quota.” My aunt sighed. “Our garments are piling up in the warehouse. We can’t sell, but production has to go on.”

“The government wants to control the economy, but how can they?” Grandma put some fish into Aunt Duyên’s bowl. “Our medical system is suffering, too. I just visited a friend at the B?ch Mai Hospital; it’s so crowded. They need more doctors there.” She turned to my mother. “Ng?c, I ran into your colleagues who said they can’t wait to have you back.”