One early morning at the start of the month, Mrs. Hạnh sat on a bamboo chair on her porch, her eyes fixed on the road leading to the city. It had been exactly one month since her daughter—Thủy—last came home to visit, breaking the routine she had always kept. Every weekend, Thủy would take a bus back to the village, sit and chat with her mother, and share a simple meal together. But this time, even her messages had stopped. Whenever Mrs. Hạnh tried calling, the number was unreachable.

A sinking feeling of unease began to grow in her chest. “Maybe she’s just too busy and forgot to call me?” she tried to reassure herself, but the worry churned restlessly inside.

That day, she decided to take the early bus to the city to look for her daughter. The house Thủy rented with her husband—Quân—was deep inside a narrow alley. As soon as she stepped off the bus, she felt stifled, though she couldn’t explain why. Approaching the gate, a strange stench hit her nose, so strong she had to cover her face with her hand.

“It must just be some garbage piled up nearby…” she thought. But as she looked around, the alley was clean, and the neighbors’ homes showed no signs of anything unusual. The odor was clearly coming from her daughter’s house.

Her hand trembling, she knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again. Silence. Gently pushing the door, it creaked open. Inside, it was pitch-dark, curtains drawn tight, not a single ray of light coming through.

“Thủy! Are you home?” her voice cracked. No reply.

She stepped in, her slippers slapping against the quiet floor. The stench grew heavier, making her dizzy. Feeling along the wall, she flicked the light switch, but the bulb only flickered and died. In the faint light seeping through the curtain’s edge, she saw clutter everywhere—dishes piled on the table, clothes strewn across the floor.

“Oh my God… how did the house end up like this?” she muttered.

As she passed the bedroom, she froze at the sound of a faint shuffle, as though someone had hurriedly moved something. The door was ajar. With trembling hands, she pushed it open.

What she saw drained the life from her body: under the bed lay an unusually large, worn-out sack. Dark stains blotted its surface. From it emanated that unbearable stench of decay.

Her heart clenched. She collapsed to her knees, her hands shaking as she tugged at the edge of the sack. With the slightest opening, she caught sight of long, familiar strands of hair—her daughter’s.

“No! No, it can’t be…” she screamed, tears pouring down her face.

At that moment, a figure emerged from the bathroom. It was Quân, her son-in-law. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken with dark circles. Seeing her, he froze, then tried to compose himself.

“Mother… what are you doing here?”

Her finger pointed shakily at the sack, her voice breaking:
“Quân… what have you done to my Thủy?”

He stammered, speechless, backing away. But her horrified gaze left him nowhere to hide. After a long pause, he sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands.

“I… I didn’t mean to… That day we argued. She wanted a divorce, but I refused. In the heat of the moment… I lost control…”

His confession cut through her heart like a blade. She collapsed, wailing as though her very soul had been ripped away. The daughter she had carried, raised with love, was now gone—fallen victim to violence in the very home meant to be her shelter.

With trembling fingers, she tried dialing the police, her phone slipping from her sweaty, tear-soaked hands. Quân lunged to grab it, but she screamed so loudly it echoed through the neighborhood. Hearing the commotion, neighbors rushed over. Shocked by the scene, they immediately called the authorities.

Minutes later, police swarmed the small house. Quân was handcuffed and led away, his face vacant with despair. Mrs. Hạnh clung to the sack as if holding her daughter once more, sobbing in agony.

The neighbors stood outside in disbelief. They knew the couple often quarreled, but no one imagined it would end in such a tragedy.

As Thủy’s body was taken away for examination, her mother followed, each step as heavy as walking barefoot on blades. Her voice cracked with exhaustion as she called her daughter’s name over and over:

“Thủy… my child… why did you leave me like this? How could heaven let my daughter suffer such a cruel fate?”

That night, her hair turned completely white. Back in her small home in the village, silence reigned, broken only by the wind rustling through the betel trees and her frail figure sitting by her daughter’s photo in mourning.

The pain of losing a child was a wound that would never heal. Every morning, she still sat on the porch, her eyes fixed on the distant road. But this time, she knew… no bus would ever bring her daughter home again.