In the spacious three-story house nestled in a quiet neighborhood, that evening seemed no different from any other. The whole family gathered around the dinner table, laughter filling the air. Father-in-law, Mr. Quang, sat in his usual seat, telling old stories that made everyone laugh. No one could have imagined that just a few minutes later, he would collapse face-first onto the table, chopsticks still in his hand. Panic filled the room, people rushed around in chaos—but it was already too late.

His death came suddenly, so quietly it was hard to believe. Doctors confirmed he had passed away from a stroke right after dinner, at the age of 75. At the funeral, Mrs. Mai—my mother-in-law—fainted several times, calling her husband’s name over and over as if she could not accept reality. Everyone wept at the sight, for all their lives, Mr. Quang and Mrs. Mai had been seen as the perfect couple, admired by relatives and neighbors alike.

After her husband’s passing, Mrs. Mai became unusually quiet. The once lively house grew cold without him. Yet she still kept her routine: rising early to place fresh flowers on the altar, carefully wiping each photo frame, preparing meals that included his favorite dishes—as if these small rituals could comfort her. Watching her, I felt both sorrow and admiration for her rare devotion.

“Your father loved me all his life, never once letting me suffer,” she would often say with pride shining in her eyes. Her words became a kind of family creed, making everyone respect Mr. Quang even more. On his first death anniversary, she insisted every single dish he liked be prepared exactly right. “Your father will surely be pleased from the other side,” she said, wiping her tears. Her loyalty moved everyone.

But life is never flawless. One sweltering summer afternoon, while I was cleaning the family altar, a small accident changed everything. I accidentally knocked over a large porcelain vase in the corner, shattering it into pieces. Among the broken shards lay an old envelope and a thick bundle of cash. At first, I thought it was just some keepsake, but when I opened the letter, my heart nearly stopped.

The handwriting—trembling but unmistakably my father-in-law’s—revealed a secret buried for 25 years. He confessed that during his years trading wood in Hoa Binh, he had an affair with a woman and fathered a daughter out of wedlock. That daughter was now 25 years old, with her address carefully written down. Along with his confession, he left a large sum of money as compensation.

“I was wrong, from the moment of weakness that year. I never had the courage to tell the truth while alive. If one day this secret is uncovered, I only hope you will deliver this money to the mother and daughter on my behalf. Forgive me for betraying you, for causing them pain…” Every word felt like a blade cutting into my chest. My hands trembled, sweat broke out across my body. I realized this truth could shatter the perfect image of Mr. Quang in his wife’s heart.

That evening, the family gathered, the letter laid in the center of the table like an omen of fate. Shock and disbelief filled the room. Mr. Quang—the ideal father, the devoted husband—had in fact betrayed his family. Silent tears rolled down the children’s faces. The eldest son finally whispered, “If this letter is true, we must honor Father’s last wish…” But before he could finish, Mrs. Mai slammed her hand on the table.

“No! Absolutely not! All these years, he deceived me so cruelly. How could he be so heartless?” Her voice shook with grief and fury. Her wrinkled face twisted in anguish as tears poured down. My heart clenched as I watched her world collapse.

She sobbed uncontrollably: “I lived my whole life thinking I was a happy woman… but it was all a lie.” No one dared to speak. The room was suffocating in tension. Finally, the youngest son hesitated: “But, Mother… she is our blood. Father left that money because he wanted to atone.” Instantly, Mrs. Mai glared: “Say no more! To me, this never happened. If you love me, bury this secret forever!”

Conflict tore the family apart. The children stood between two impossible choices: honor their father’s last wish, or protect their mother from unbearable pain. The second daughter broke down: “If we ignore it, aren’t we being unfilial?” The eldest clenched his fists: “But if we do it, Mother might die of heartbreak…” The debate went in circles, no answer in sight.

From that day on, Mrs. Mai withdrew into herself. She rarely spoke, her eyes forever clouded with sorrow. I often left bowls of porridge and glasses of milk outside her door, but heard little response. In her heart, the image of her perfect husband had been torn apart, leaving only a wound that would never heal. At night, I sometimes heard her whisper: “How could you do this to me?”

Meanwhile, the children quietly debated. Some wanted to seek out the address, at least to know the truth. Others feared doing so would crush their mother further. I stayed silent, caught in the middle, feeling the storm inside me. I understood her pain—but also the remorse of the dead. Never before had filial duty and love been so impossible to balance.