“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I have no choice.”

“Yes, you do.” She stomped her feet. “Every mother has a choice. Every mother has to take care of her children.”

Tears blurred my eyesight. “Yes, I failed. But I’ll make it up to all of you. In Hà N?i, I’ll be one in tens of thousands. There we can start a new life.”

“Then just go ahead.” Ng?c skirted around me, staggering forward.

“Wait. Tell me what to do?”

“You’re smart. You always know what to do, Mama.”

After these words, she left me.

I followed her from one lane to the next. I searched among my knotted thoughts for words of apology to say to my daughter but found none. The truth had sunk deep into my bones, that I had indeed, by abandoning my children one by one, become the worst mother. I didn’t know what would happen to us, but I knew one thing: my children might never forgive me.

After a while, Ng?c turned and disappeared behind a thick fence of leafy plants. Peeking through, I saw her kneeling on a front yard’s dirt surface. There, five or six children were playing, tossing pebbles and catching them while holding a pair of chopsticks in the same hand. Do you remember, Guava, how good your mother was with that game? She’d been an expert since a very young age. Now she was enchanting the children with her skills.

Behind Ng?c stood a house, walled by thin bamboo slats and roofed with dry rice stalks. It was a typical home of a farmer, someone who was not rich, but not too poor. A woman appeared in the open doorway, a baby clutched at her waist.

I ducked so she wouldn’t see me.

“Mama,” the children called. “We got a new friend. She’s so good at this.”

I heard Ng?c’s polite greeting and the click-clack sounds of pebbles being tossed and caught mid-air. The children cheered and clapped.

“Where do you come from?” the woman asked.

“My parents died last year, Auntie. I’ve been wandering, looking for a job.”

“Poor you. Does it mean you have no home?” a girl’s voice said.

“I have none for now.”

“Mama, could she stay with us? Please, Mama,” said a boy.

“Don’t you even suggest that, Son,” the woman said. “We have too little to eat ourselves. We can’t hire anybody.”

“I can share my rice with her,” said a girl.

“Me, too. Me, too.” Other voices followed.

“I could be your faraway relative coming for a visit,” said Ng?c. “Please, Auntie. I’m honest and hard-working. Let me help look after your kids. I can cook and keep the house clean. I’m good at planting rice. I’ll do anything you ask. All I need is food and somewhere to sleep.”

“Uhm, I’m not sure. . . . I have to ask my husband first.”

“Daddy will agree. He always complains about too much work,” said a boy.

“I can teach your children how to read and write,” said Ng?c. “My parents used to send me to the best school. I even had a private teacher.” This part was true and as she said it, Ng?c began to cry.

“Mama, Mama, please, let her stay,” the children begged.

When I lifted my head and peered through the fence, I no longer saw my daughter. Everyone was gone, leaving behind nothing but an empty yard.

My Mother’s Secret

Hà N?i—1975–1976

Sitting next to Uncle ??t and listening to his story that night, I realized that war was monstrous. If it didn’t kill those it touched, it took away a piece of their souls, so they could never be whole again.

A sob. Grandma emerged from the darkness, tears glistening on her face. She opened her arms, wrapping them around Uncle ??t. “What a journey you had to go through. I’m sorry, Son.”

“I’m sorry, too, Mama . . . for taking so long to come back.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re here now.”

The bàng tree stirred, its branches rustling against our roof. I’d seen a pair of brown birds building their nest on a high branch. Now I heard them call each other. The sun was yet to rise, but I saw light ahead of me: with Uncle ??t home, for sure my mother would return.

“Tea?” I asked.

Grandma put on her jacket. “Go back to bed, both of you.” She reached for the bicycle’s handle, then swirled around, smiling at Uncle ??t. “Ng?c and Sáng will be so happy to see you.”

I was pouring water into the kettle when Uncle ??t cleared his voice. “H??ng, I need a favor.”

“Sure.” I nodded, expecting him to ask me to go get him more liquor.

“I hope Nhung doesn’t come back. If she does, tell her I’m not home.”

“But why, Uncle?”

“Well . . . things change. People change.”

I bit my lip. Miss Nhung looked so wretched last night. “I’m sorry, Uncle, but I can’t lie. Miss Nhung has been kinder to Grandma than Uncle Sáng’s wife. She is one of the few people who still visits our home, despite Grandma’s job.”

“It’s over between us, H??ng.”

“She taught me how to ride a bicycle—”

“I don’t care, and I don’t want to talk about her anymore. Okay?”