That night, the cold bit through my fingers until I could barely feel them. The grocery bag I carried was damp, the kind of chill that seeps straight into your bones. My mother wasn't home yet. The room glowed under a single yellow bulb, tired and flickering, while the wind howled outside the window.
I set the bag down and sat quietly, my thoughts drifting. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop seeing that boy's face—the one I met earlier that evening.
He'd been sitting on the pavement, thin as a shadow, his shoulders wrapped in a worn-out jacket. Small hands cupped around a dented tin can. His hair hung over his eyes, damp from the drizzle, and when he looked up, his gaze met mine—still and deep, like river water at dusk.
Autumn that year was sharp and cold, the kind that made your heart tremble. His eyes didn't look like someone begging—they looked like someone who'd long forgotten what warmth felt like. He smiled faintly, barely enough to count as a smile.
His face was narrow, jawline sharp, skin tanned and smudged with dirt. Yet somehow, there was something clean about him. His eyes—long, quiet, and weary—carried a sadness too heavy for his age. His lips were pale, corners drooping, as if the whole world had stolen every reason he had to smile.
A gust of wind blew, stirring the strands of hair across his face. And in that small, fleeting moment, something inside me twisted. His face—both strange and familiar—felt like something from a dream I once had, a dream that left behind a trace of sorrow.
I didn't know his name, only that his image lingered behind my eyelids long after. The quiet eyes, the faint smile, the loneliness carved into his expression—it all stayed with me like a memory that refused to fade.
That brief encounter felt as if someone had gently touched a place deep inside me I didn't even know existed. It wasn't dramatic. Just unforgettable.
I told myself, "Sleep, you have to get up early."But that night, sleep never came. I lay there listening to the soft patter of rain on the tin roof, and in the silence between the drops, his face appeared again—fragile, cold, but with a smile that ached in my chest.
Maybe it was because he was like me—just another child no one ever loved.
I knew the truth about my own beginning. I was born from a night like that—a mistake among many. My mother never even knew who my father was.
When I asked, she said flatly, "Just a man not worth remembering."
Back then, hospitals didn't dare take such cases. And she, though she hated me, had no choice but to give birth—as if paying off a debt she never asked for.
I watched her sleep that night, her breathing heavy with alcohol. The river wind crept in through the thin curtain, carrying the cold.
And I wondered—if I had never been born, maybe life would have been easier for both of us.
I don't know when she began to hate me. Maybe the moment she realized I existed.
She was twenty-two that year—young, beautiful, with a face that could stop men in their tracks. At the Thiên Thanh nightclub, she was the most desired woman under the red lights.
Until one night, a drunk customer changed everything.
She got pregnant, and her world began to fall apart. Her skin broke out, her face lost its glow, her lips cracked dry. Customers turned away. The club threw her out. The men who once called her "Mỹ, the prettiest girl on the street," started whispering behind her back—
"No one even knows who fathered her kid."
My mother said she couldn't remember. That night was a blur—too much alcohol, too many faces. When she woke, there was only pain and blood.
She'd wanted to get rid of the baby, but the doctors refused, and she had no money anyway. So she endured it.
And from the day I was born, she looked at me as if I'd stolen her beauty, her youth, her life.
She once told me, voice raspy from drink, "If it weren't for you, I'd still be the woman men chased after. Now look at me—a withered whore."
I didn't cry. I was used to it—to being the reason for her misery.
That night, I sat outside on the porch. The river wind was cold and wet, soaking through my thin clothes. Inside, my mother slept, breathing heavy, surrounded by the sour smell of liquor.
The yellow light flickered. Her shadow on the wall looked warped, fading slowly into the dark. I watched until it disappeared completely.
I didn't know why I was even born.
Other people have fathers, mothers, families. I had a mother who couldn't stand the sight of me. Whenever she looked at me, it was as if she were staring at her own regret.
I looked like her—the same cheekbones, the same eyes. Maybe that's why she hated me more. Every time she saw me, she saw herself: humiliated, broken, and helpless.
Sometimes I thought—if one day I vanished, maybe she'd finally breathe easier. Maybe she'd stop drinking. Maybe she'd smile again.
The wind picked up, rattling the curtain. I hugged my knees tight, hearing her voice echo in my head—hoarse, sharp, and cold as metal:
"You were a mistake from the start."
I closed my eyes. Outside, the rain kept falling, and beneath it all, I could hear my heart beating—soft, weak, almost as if it wanted to stop.
The next morning, I woke to shouting. My mother's voice clashed with another—our landlady, Ms. Hân—sharp and shrill through the misty dawn.
"I've told you already! Three months' rent unpaid—you think you can stay here for free? This dump's falling apart and you still act like it's a palace!"
I rubbed my eyes, sat up. Pale light crept through the cracked window. The table was scattered with ashes and empty bottles. My mother was still in last night's clothes, makeup smudged, yelling back with the same fury.
Ms. Hân wasn't one to back down either—hands on her hips, face red, voice cutting through the air.
It wasn't new. Almost every morning started this way—fighting, silence, then fighting again. I stood behind the door, watching the two women, one old, one young, both worn down by life, both too tired to be kind.
"You'll see! If you don't pay today, I'll throw you out tomorrow!" Ms. Hân barked, stomping off down the hallway.
"I'm not scared of anyone," my mother shouted after her, slamming her hand down so hard she nearly knocked over the bottle.
I stayed quiet, too afraid to step out. The money was gone. My mother had been sick, coughing for days, too weak to work. I thought of the few bills I had saved—but it wasn't enough.
Eventually, Ms. Hân's footsteps faded away. My mother sat down heavily, breathing hard, then glared at me.
"What are you staring at? Go to the market."
I nodded, slipped on a thin jacket, and stepped outside. The sunlight was faint, dusted with the smell of dampness, trash, smoke, people. My throat tightened for no reason. Maybe because morning had barely started, and the day already felt too long.
The alley was quiet, wrapped in mist. Faint sunlight filtered through the mess of wires overhead. The smell of fish sauce, coal, and weary life clung to my hair.
As I passed the row of rented rooms, I saw Ms. Hân outside, hanging laundry. A pair of faded gray pants swayed gently in the breeze. She stood with her hands on her hips, eyes squinting against the light—tired, but fierce.
I paused. She was loud, bitter, always cursing someone.And yet somehow, I couldn't bring myself to hate her.
End of Chapter 3.