But perhaps it was because of love that I grew afraid. Afraid that the world would never let people like us go free. I was scared that one day she, too, would understand—there are things you can never escape, no matter how hard you try: poverty, suffering, or fate.
I once asked Nhat Nam, "Have you ever wondered how your life would be if Trang didn't exist?"
He looked at me and gave a faint, sorrowful smile. "If it weren't for her, I'd have died with my mother already. But because of her, I have to live—not because I want to, but because someone has to be the grown-up."
That sentence stayed with me for years. Back then, I was eighteen, and Nhat Nam was nineteen. He was still just a thin boy, yet already carrying the weight of an entire life.
That afternoon, Hanoi glowed softly after days of rain. The sunlight slipped through the hospital window, spilling across the thin blanket where he lay.
Hanoi nights, 1998—the neon lights from the nightclub across the lake still glimmered faint red against the window frame. I sat at home folding my mother's old clothes, not knowing what I was doing.
Mother was drunk again, reeking of liquor, lipstick smeared down to her chin. She laughed—a bitter, sour laugh—and said, "A woman must learn to live like a woman."
I didn't understand, only felt a heaviness pressing on my chest.
A while later, there was a knock on the door. She fixed her hair, pulled down her dress, and turned to me. "Go open it."
A strange man stepped in. He smiled, teeth yellowed, the stench of cigarettes making me nauseous. I stepped back, but Mother gripped my arm tightly and said, "That's her. Young, just grown. You like her?"
I spun toward her. The dim light fell across her face—beautiful yet ruined. In her eyes was the glaze of liquor and the bitterness of a woman hardened by love.
"Mom… what are you saying?" I asked, my voice trembling.She didn't answer. She just shoved me toward that man.
After that, everything happened too fast for me to know whether I was screaming or silent.
The sound of the door slamming, fabric tearing—and then, silence. I didn't feel pain anymore, only cold. A cold that seeped into my bones. The stench of cheap liquor and cheap men soaked into my skin, impossible to wash away.
When it was over, I curled up like a starved cat, too weak even to cry. The door closed, the man was gone.
Mother stood there, leaning against the wall, hands trembling as she lit a cigarette. The flame revealed her empty, expressionless face—like the victim wasn't her own child.
I sat up, teeth clenched. "Why?"
She exhaled smoke, smiling faintly. "Because you're my daughter. And if I'm this kind of woman, you won't be any different."
Just one sentence—and it buried what little of my soul was left.
I left the house that night. No coat, no shoes. Bare feet on the cold pavement. The monsoon wind brushed my hair, carrying the stench of alcohol, humiliation, and a youth already dead.
It went on like that every night. After ten, when the neighbors' lights dimmed and traffic grew thin, our door would open. A man entered. Then another. Then another. I stopped counting.
The smell of liquor, cigarettes, sweat, and men filled the room. I lay still, eyes shut, trying to imagine I didn't exist. If I had no soul, I think I would have died long ago.
Mother sat outside in the living room, sometimes letting out a hoarse laugh. "Just bear it, girl. No one survives this life on dreams."
Each time she said that, I felt something inside me fade—a little piece of purity, gone for good.
End of Chapter 10.