🔥 I Introduced My Boyfriend to My Mom, Saw Her Picking Up Scrap Bottles to Earn Money — He Immediately Asked to Break Up, and I Just Smiled and Nodded!

I stood frozen in the meeting room, my whole body chilled. On the projector screen, the last slide clearly showed the name of the team leader: Le Hang. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The internal communications project about workers’ perspectives — something I had been nurturing day and night for two months — was now published under someone else’s name.

My closest colleague, Thao, turned to me and said, “This is your work.” I nodded, a lump in my throat. Before I could say anything, Boss Lam turned to the group. “Hang did very well, with fresh ideas. Later, HR will propose a special reward.” Scattered applause followed.

I didn’t clap. I just sat there, eyes glued to the name Le Hang on the slide, feeling my heart tighten. But I swallowed my anger and lowered my head to pack my laptop. It wasn’t cowardice, but I knew if I spoke up now, I’d be labeled jealous and problematic. At work, those who tell the truth often lose.

I quietly left the meeting, closing the door as gently as possible.

In the hallway, my legs buckled, and my hands clenched a USB that had been swapped out long ago without me knowing. That night, I didn’t eat. I sat curled up in my tiny rented room, tears uncontrollable.

I thought about my mom, who came home late after collecting scrap bottles, her bent back carrying a sack full of used paper, yet she still smiled and asked, “Have you eaten yet?”

I had tried to live decently, worked hard to change my life so no one would ever know my mom once stooped down to pick up cans under the scorching sun.

But the more I tried to hold it together, the more lost I felt.

The next day, I took a day off.

Dung, my boyfriend of nearly a year, was surprised when he opened the door to my room.

“Are you quitting your job?”

I shook my head.

“No, I’m tired. I want to go back to see my mom.”

He narrowed his eyes, hesitated, then asked, “Is something wrong at home?”

I looked down.

“I want to introduce you to my mom.”

Dung was silent for a few seconds then smiled, “I thought you were still shy about your family. You can’t keep hiding forever.”

I replied bitterly.

Dung was tall, fair-skinned, and spoke softly. His family owned a building materials store in Bien Hoa, had a decent house and a car. I thought he didn’t care much about appearances because he often volunteered and had gone on flood relief missions with me.

But I never dared tell him what my mom really did — I just said she sold small items in the countryside.

We took an early bus back to Long An.

The weather was mildly sunny, the road full of potholes.

Dung sat next to me, occasionally telling stories about his strict parents who liked gentle, polite people.

I forced a smile. His hand held mine warmly, but I didn’t feel safe.

I quietly told him about my poor childhood — how I used to beg for cardboard outside the market, sometimes picking up empty milk cartons, while my mom got soaked in the rain collecting beer cans.

He nodded silently and squeezed my hand.

I sighed, thinking maybe I was overthinking.

But I was wrong.

The motorbike stopped at the alley near my house.

The narrow street was lined with bushes of flowers, so familiar I could walk blindfolded.

I told the driver to go slowly because the alley was full of gravel.

Then I froze.

My mom, wearing an old conical hat and faded traditional blouse, was bending down to pick up beer cans beside a roadside trash pile.

Her back was soaked with sweat, left hand holding a sack, right hand pulling out a piece of newspaper still sticky with chili sauce.

“Almost home, huh?” Dung asked.

I didn’t answer.

My mouth was dry. His hand let go without me noticing.

Dung saw my mom. His eyes hardened and fell silent.

Mom looked up and saw me.

“You’re back, huh, dear?”

I didn’t have time to smile before Dung stood frozen.

“Your mom really does that?”

I nodded, choking.

“Yes, this is my mom.”

The air thickened as mom stepped forward to wipe sweat from her brow.

“You’re handsome. Was the trip tiring?”

Dung only nodded, said nothing, and didn’t smile.

I didn’t dare look at him.

Mom still held the sack, her blouse stained with ink from the newspaper, pant legs rolled up.

I walked between the two people who once raised me and the one now leaving me, feeling like my heart was being torn apart.

When we got home, mom went to the kitchen to prepare fried eggs and boiled vegetables.

Dung pulled me aside on the porch.

“You lied to me, didn’t you?”

I was speechless.

“I just didn’t dare to tell you.”

He thought I came from a respectable family, his voice gradually lowering. He couldn’t imagine seeing my mother picking up scrap bottles on the street. I was silent—not out of anger, but out of horror in his eyes. If I had told him from the start, would he have stayed? Dung didn’t answer. After a moment, he sighed, “Vi, I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’re compatible.”

I smiled, a faint smile like raindrops on a tin roof. “Not compatible? Or you just can’t accept having a girlfriend whose mother collects scrap?” He turned his back. “My life needs someone more fitting. Sorry.”

I stood there watching his retreating figure leave the gate. My mom stepped out, wiping her hair, looking puzzled. “Where’s your friend?”

I squeezed her hand. “Maybe he had urgent work. He left earlier, Mom.”

Mom didn’t ask more, just held my hand. For the first time, I felt that hand was the strongest shelter of my life. And for the first time, I no longer felt ashamed of my origins.

---

I was stunned when I opened the internal email early Monday morning. Even colder was the last line: “Suspending your communication duties until verification is completed.”

My hands trembled. I read the unclear data again and again. I was the one who collected every photo, every interview with workers, every sentence I wrote, every image I took — all by myself.

But someone deliberately fabricated this story.

Only Thao pulled her chair closer, “You didn’t do anything wrong. Your data’s all saved on the group drive.”

I shook my head, trying to remember. Once I asked Hang to print a preliminary analysis to present to the boss, but that was a raw file. Could it be her? I didn’t want to trust anyone, but my heart grew colder.

Tuan, the technical team leader, saw me dazed and quietly asked, “Vi, are you okay? This morning HR was gossiping about your documents.”

I bit my lip, “I don’t understand. Someone is setting me up.”

Tuan said nothing more, just looked at me with eyes that seemed to be calculating something.

That afternoon, I was called into a private meeting with boss Lam. He didn’t look at me, just pushed a printout across the table.

“The images here resemble your original files from the project approval day, but the timestamps have been altered. Why edit that? You haven’t touched it since submission. So explain why the metadata on these photos was updated only three days ago?”

I didn’t know what to say. Sweat poured down my back. Boss Lam pushed his chair back and stood.

“I’m suspending your project assignment until the technical team verifies. You will be off group work for a while.”

As I stepped out of the meeting room, I knew I was being sidelined.

That night I called Mom. She recognized my voice right away.

“Getting bullied again, huh, child?”

“Mom, sometimes I just want to quit everything and go back to live with you. You’re poor but you never ran away.”

“I’m the same,” she said softly but truly.

Three days later, I was officially removed from the workers’ perspective project — the one I started. The project was reassigned to Hang. She even posted a motivational article about the job on the internal network, getting hundreds of likes and compliments.

I read it, both amused and bitter.

The opening sentence was exactly the same as the draft I wrote.

Literally, she only changed a few words, but it was enough to make me look like an idea thief.

Only Thao sighed, “I told you, don’t trust people too much.”

I looked at her, squeezed her hand tightly, “Sis, I don’t want to be betrayed again.”

That Friday night, I submitted a proposal for a new campaign—not through boss Lam but directly to the corporate executive board.

“Honoring the silent workers, starting from our own family.”

The campaign focused on a true story — my mother, the woman who picked up scrap bottles to raise a daughter who became a company communications officer.

When Tuan heard the story, he was silent for a long moment, then said, “You’ll face a lot of public opinion.”

“I don’t need pity. I just want the truth,” I said.

He nodded, “I’ll help you make the video, but you have to be ready.”

The clip was aired internally Monday morning. A 3-minute video telling Mrs. Hoa’s story — a 55-year-old widow who earned a living picking scrap bottles to support her daughter’s education, who once hid this from her mother out of shame. But now she told every wrinkle on her mom’s hand.

The clip ended with a trembling voice: “I once lowered my head because of poverty, but I will never bow my head for that again.”

The internal network exploded with hundreds of heartfelt comments.

I saw my mother’s image in those words — a more genuine video than any polished speech.

That afternoon, I got an invitation to meet the Deputy General Director in charge of communications.

She said only one thing: “I’ve never seen anyone as brave as you. I want you to lead this campaign officially, outside the communications department.”

I nervously accepted.

The next day, I saw Hang walk past my desk, her eyes darting around.

I knew she wouldn’t let it go, and I wasn’t afraid anymore.

That afternoon, I received an anonymous message:

“Don’t think telling your mother’s story will get you anywhere. I can make you lose everything again.”

I gripped my phone tightly, smirked.

Once I bowed because I was poor — I accept it.

But if anyone wants to see me fall again, they’ve chosen the wrong person.

I never imagined she would exploit her own mother to boost her image. That’s the lowest.

The anonymous message appeared right as I entered the office Monday morning.

Soon after, a wave of hateful comments appeared under the article about Mrs. Hoa, the scrap-collecting mother.

Cheap PR tricks for promotion?

No ethics, using family for sympathy.

I was frozen, my hands trembling when I saw a secretly taken photo of my mother bent over picking scrap bottles, cut and captioned with fabricated text to attract sympathy.

In reality, my mother still picks scrap every day. They turned her into a joke, a tool for a populist campaign. And I, the daughter who once bowed her head out of poverty, am now seen as a fraud. I collapsed into a chair, my heart pounding. Thao hugged my shoulder, “Don’t read anymore, they want to scare you.”

“But where did they get the photos of my mother? Who took them? Who leaked them? And who planted this dirt besides Hang?” I glanced over—Hang was sitting two desks away, calm-faced, typing an email. Her eyes glanced coldly past me.

By noon, I was called into an urgent meeting with HR and boss Lam. He opened his laptop, showing a series of posts accusing me of fabricating stories to win favor with leadership.

“Can you explain these photos?”

I looked at the pictures of my mother rummaging beside a trash heap. They were clearly taken just a few days ago—someone was definitely watching her.

“Yes, these are real photos. My mother is still doing this job.”

“So the video claiming she quit is fake?”

“I never said my mother quit. I only told the truth.”

“My mother still makes a living picking scrap because she doesn’t want to depend on her children.”

Boss Lam frowned. “I don’t like emotional tricks like this. Communications work must not turn into a personal drama stage.”

I bit my lip, but people were moved by the truth. “I didn’t lie.”

He waved his hand. “Pause the project’s communications and consider transferring you to the data archive department.”

A devastating fall—from content communications to file storage.

That night I didn’t eat. I lay awake all night in darkness. Betrayed once by stolen effort, and framed again.

I truly collapsed.

Around midnight, my phone rang—it was Mom.

“Have you eaten yet, child?”

I broke down crying.

“Mom, they say I fabricated the story, said you’re nothing special, that I’m evil.”

Mom was silent for a moment.

“You know what? When you were in fourth grade, some classmates called you a ‘scrap kid.’ You cried for three days, but you still passed with honors because you knew your worth isn’t defined by what others say.”

I sobbed.

“But this time, you can’t bear it anymore. Let me handle this for you once. I’ll answer everything.”

---

The next morning, the internal network exploded—not because of the scandal but because a livestream video was spreading rapidly.

My mother appeared before the public.

Wearing her familiar traditional shirt, sitting on the porch, she spoke clearly in a video recorded by a volunteer group.

“I am Bao Hoa, the woman in the clip.

I am Vi’s mother.

My daughter never made anything up.

I collect scrap by myself—not forced by anyone, not for pity.

My daughter used to be ashamed of me, but when she dared to tell the truth, she became stronger than anyone.

I don’t need pity, but I won’t allow anyone to insult my daughter.”

---

The entire company was silent, even those who had criticized went quiet.

The livestream reached over 3 million views in one morning.

The press started reporting.

Some headlines read: “The mother who silenced the online community.”

“I pick scrap with clean hands.”

That afternoon, I was called to a senior office—this time the CEO himself.

He was straightforward: “I want you to be the content supervisor for the upcoming social campaign.”

I was stunned.

“But you are being transferred to archives.”

“I signed to cancel that transfer this morning. I want you to lead the ‘Silent Workers, Unsung Heroes’ campaign.”

I nodded, tears welling up.

---

As I left the room, I saw Hang waiting by the elevator, her eyes red and mouth tight.

I passed without a word, but as the elevator doors closed, I heard her whisper,

“It’s not over yet.”

I smiled coldly.

“Yes, not over. But this time, I won’t let myself fall again. And I’m not alone anymore.”

---

The “Silent Workers, Unsung Heroes” project was transferred to the strategic planning department.

I temporarily stepped down from the supervisor role.

I stood frozen before the latest announcement on the internal system.

Chills ran down my spine, and I immediately ran to the communications office to verify.

Thao pulled me aside.

“Do you know what happened? They transferred your project to another department but you haven’t received any email yet.”

She looked around then whispered, “There was a secret meeting yesterday between Tuan and the planning department. Hang is preparing documents to submit to national media.”

I was stunned.

Tuan—the one who promised to help me fight the accusations—was the one pushing me out of the project I created.

That afternoon, I went directly to meet Tuan.

He was in a meeting; I waited outside the hallway for over an hour.

Finally, when he stepped out, I stopped him.

“Why?”

Tuan avoided my gaze.

“Hang has connections with a major newspaper. They need speed. You’re slow because of your emotions.”

So he chose power, not the truth. He gripped the folder tightly. The world doesn’t run on truth, Vi—it runs on whoever controls the story.
I laughed bitterly. Then I’ll tell my story until no one wants to hear his anymore.

That night, I started a personal livestream—no glamor, no script—just a phone and the dim yellow ceiling light.
I spoke slowly. I was once mocked because my mother picked scrap, accused of fabricating stories, betrayed by colleagues stealing my work. And today, I was pushed out of the very project I initiated.
But if you think I’ll be silent again, sorry, I’m not the Vi I used to be.

After 10 minutes, the comments poured in:
“Keep going, sister Vi, don’t let them kill your real motivation.”
“You’re the reason I dared to talk about my mother.”

The next day, social media exploded. From a personal livestream, the story of the communications girl and her scrap-picking mother spread to mainstream news platforms.
An NGO contacted me, proposing sponsorship for an independent project titled From Scrap to Glory, honoring the unsung workers.

I sat in a small café holding the draft contract, tears welling up. No need for the company, no need for departments—just truth and decent people, I can start over.
On the official launch day, I invited my mother to stand with me on stage. She wore a jade green áo dài, her hair neatly tied.
When the MC asked about her feelings, she simply said, “I’m nothing special. I just won’t let my child bow her head ever again.”

The whole auditorium stood and applauded; many cried. But one person didn’t stand—Hang, sitting at the back, her face cold as stone.

A week later, Hang filed a lawsuit accusing me of intellectual property theft.
She demanded compensation for damaging her reputation, claiming I unlawfully used media materials she painstakingly created inside the company.

I chuckled and quietly involved the NGO’s lawyer.
In less than three days, all metadata for copyrights on articles, campaign ideas, and original clips were extracted, proving 100% that the source belonged to my account—long before Hang joined the team.

Tuan, now removed from management, sent me a final message:
“I was wrong, but there are things you don’t understand yet.”

Hang hadn’t stopped. That night, I received an anonymous package containing a hard drive with a crooked handwritten note stuck on top:
“If you continue, I’ll release all this data online.”

I looked at my mother peeling fruit by the kitchen stove.
I lightly touched the hard drive and smiled. “If you want to threaten me, go ahead.”

Because this time, I live true to myself, owing no one anything.
If you had a chance to start over, no longer afraid of being hurt or misunderstood, what would you do first to live honestly with yourself?