I had to stay strong for my children, but for a long time afterward, I felt like a broken shell. I know now that true love is rare and once we find our true love, we must hold on to it. I just wish that when Hùng was alive, I’d told him more often that I loved him.

C?ng swore to stay out of politics and never to support the government again. He poured his energy into our family business, which had been prospering under his leadership. He passed his skills to Minh and the two of them spent a lot of time together. We all worked hard and managed to hire additional workers. Our fields continued to be lush and our cattle stalls full.

I thought we were getting back on our feet. I was sure we’d received enough bad luck and Heaven would spare us from further turbulence.

But I was wrong.

In October 1955, just seven months after your grandpa’s funeral, something else crashed down onto our heads.

“DI?U LAN, CAN you keep a secret?” asked Mrs. Tú in the kitchen as I poured shredded crabmeat into a clay pot filled with rice porridge. Food for Sáng. I’d just come back from the field, and wanted to feed him before going out to lunch. One of my mother’s friends was turning seventy and had invited me to come over.

“What secret, Auntie?”

“Remember Th??ng?” Mrs. Tú whispered. “She worked as the cook for the ?inh family. I ran into her this morning at the market. She told me the ?inhs have left. They’re trying to cross the border, to go to the South.”

How strange, I thought. The South had been cut away from us over a year before, in June 1954, by something called the Geneva Agreements. The Communists ran the North, but in the South, Ng? ?ình Di?m was in charge, supported by the French and the Americans. Most of those who worked for the French or were Catholics had moved south. As far as I knew, the ?inhs hated the French. They weren’t Catholics. Since the Great Hunger, they’d prospered and become the richest clan in V?nh Phúc Village. Besides, the North-South border had already been closed. How could they even get to the South?

Mrs. Tú edged next to me. She lowered her voice further. “Di?u Lan, I think you should listen to this. Th??ng said Madam ?inh told her the Communists have started some crazy thing called the Land Reform. Landless farmers are encouraged to rise against rich landowners. That’s why the ?inhs left.”

I squinted through a curtain of woodsmoke, ladling the porridge into a bowl. “I heard about the Land Reform, Auntie, but we have nothing to worry about. Remember how much rice, silver, and gold we donated to the Vi?t Minh?” I closed my eyes, trying to make myself believe what I was about to say. “The Party will protect us against any uprising. After all, together with other landowners, we financed their troops.”

“I know, Di?u Lan. But I’m worried.”

“We’ll be fine, Auntie. We work as hard as everyone else. We give people jobs. We’ve done nothing wrong. C?ng and I already talked about this. . . . And Auntie, we can’t just leave. The workers and their families depend on us. The graves of my parents are here to be looked after. Besides, how can we just abandon everything? My parents and grandparents built all this with their lives. We can’t just run away because of some rumors.”

Mrs. Tú nodded.

Holding the bowl, I walked out of the kitchen. In the yard, the longan tree was blooming, its blossoms spreading a dome of pearls atop its green canopy. Instead of bringing joy to my heart, the sight reminded me that life’s peaceful moments could be as short-lived as flowers—gone with a strong gust of wind. The news of the ?inhs’ departure could be a warning sign.

“Mama, look.”

I turned to see ??t, sunlight on his shoulder, rushing toward me. Fourteen years old then, he was taller than me, and well built. Thu?n, eight, and H?nh, seven, ran after him. Carrying bags in their hands, they were coming home from school.

??t opened his palm and showed me a shivering bird. It was featherless, its wings drooping by its side. “A s? bird, Mama. I found it under a tree.”

“I saw it first.” H?nh shook her head.

“No, I did first.” Thu?n’s face reddened.

“How about all of you found it at the same time?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Bring the poor creature back to the tree. Its mother must be looking. If you can’t find the mother, feed it water and insects.”

“Let me see, let me see.” A voice flew through the gate. Guava, your Mama Ng?c. She was a pretty girl of fifteen then. Glowing skin, deep dimples on her cheeks, her schoolbag in her hand.

The children squatted down, studying the bird and debating what to do next. I hurried inside, to my bedroom. Sáng was already standing up in his cot, crying.

“Mama’s here,” I cooed, placing the porridge down and picking him up. My baby, he was so cute, with those big eyes and chubby face. Villagers who passed by for a visit often pinched his cheeks, saying how much he looked like his father.

“M?, m?,” Sáng babbled, lifting my shirt. He was nearly one year, yet I hadn’t weaned him. I knew he’d be my last baby.

As soon as he’d satisfied his thirst, he pointed at the porridge.

“You’re really hungry, aren’t you?” I chuckled.

Once Sáng finished eating, I changed into my favorite green silk blouse. C?ng had ordered it for me from the famous V?n Phúc Silk Village, where people had been weaving silk for over a thousand years. The fabric was exquisite, made of several layers, with the ancient Vietnamese word Phúc—Blessings—woven into it many times over. The shirt was thick, perfect for the cool autumn weather.