After raising five children into adulthood, 75-year-old Mrs. Thơm is now frail. Her children have begun fighting each other for the “right” to live with their mother, hoping to eventually “claim a share of the three-story house.” They take turns staying there, each wanting the title transferred in their favor. Then one day, they received shocking news that brought them all to their knees.

Mrs. Hiền, now seventy-five, carries a face etched with hardship, her deep wrinkles resembling dry, cracked ditches. All her life she toiled—selling noodle baskets at the market, carrying water for hire—just to raise her five children well. Her husband died young, leaving her to weather life’s storms alone. The three-story house on the street was her blood and sweat, her pride, and the only shelter she had. Each time she swept the porch, she still remembered vividly the days when she and her husband laid every single brick together.

Lately, she has grown weaker, moving slowly, her breathing heavy. Whenever the weather turned cold, her hands curled up and her joints throbbed painfully. Seeing this, her children started to gather around—but their concern was laced with calculation. The eldest suggested, “Mother, you’re old now. What do you need such a big house for? Why don’t you let us come live here and look after things for you?” Hearing this, she only gave a quiet smile, her heart sinking.

“What do you mean by that? Are we supposed to get nothing?” the second daughter immediately cut in. The third son waved his hand, “Everyone will have a share, but someone needs to have the title in their name.” Arguments erupted in the living room, loud and harsh. Mrs. Hiền sat curled up in the corner of her chair, her eyes growing dim, as though abandoned in her own home. No one seemed to notice the labored breaths of the woman who had raised them all.

That evening, when the house grew silent, she sat blankly in front of her husband’s altar. “My dear, our children now only care about the house. None of them think of their mother anymore,” she whispered. She lit another stick of incense, her eyes blurring in the white smoke. Her old heart trembled—pained, disappointed. The house, which should have united them, had become nothing more than an excuse for division.

A few days later, the eldest son moved in with his wife and children. But their presence did not bring warmth, only more tension. His wife complained, “This place is cramped and inconvenient. We’ll just stay here a little while. Once the title is transferred, we’ll figure things out.” Those careless words reached Mrs. Hiền’s ears, tightening her chest. “If you all feel burdened, then don’t. I would never dare keep you,” she said softly, her eyes brimming with tears.

Then the third son brought his family to live there too, also under the pretense of “taking care of mother.” But at night, they quarreled over which room to take, each wanting the airy upper floor. When the fourth daughter heard of it and came by, she looked at the scene bitterly: “Is this what you call taking care of her? Or are you just guarding the land?” Mocking laughter mixed with angry voices filled the house, draining it of its soul.

In her heart, sorrow piled up, yet there was still one tiny light. Her granddaughter—the child of her youngest daughter who had passed away—came often to visit. Polite and gentle, she would rush to massage her hands or fix her pillows the moment she saw her grandmother feeling weak. “Grandma, are you in pain?” she would whisper. Looking at her, Mrs. Hiền’s rare smile appeared: “With you by my side, I feel so much better.”

As the days passed, her children’s impatience grew more obvious. One sweltering afternoon, the eldest bluntly said, “Mother, just sign the transfer already so we can settle things. If something happens to you, it’ll be a big hassle.” His voice was cold, as if speaking about a stranger. She trembled slightly, her hands twisting the hem of her shirt: “So all you want is my signature? And your mother no longer means anything?”

That evening, she sat once more before her husband’s altar, silent tears falling. “My dear, I don’t want this house to become a trap. Our youngest is gone, only her child is left. I think… perhaps I must do something different.” The oil lamp flickered, casting her frail shadow on the wall. In that moment, she made a firm decision—for the first time in her life, she would not let her children dictate her path. It was a choice both painful and freeing.

The truth was, three months earlier, she had quietly sold the house. She placed the entire sum into a scholarship fund for poor children in the neighborhood. Every time she thought of those children being able to study and have full meals, her heart felt as light as the clouds. The house should never have been a burden. “Better that it bring smiles than sow hatred,” she thought.

The next morning, when all five children gathered again to discuss the transfer, she slowly stepped in. “There’s no need to discuss anymore,” she said, her tone calm but firm. “This house hasn’t been mine for some time.” All five froze in shock, mouths agape. “M-Mother… what do you mean?” the fourth daughter stammered.

Mrs. Hiền looked at them, her eyes sorrowful yet resolute. “I sold the house three months ago. The money went into a scholarship fund for poor children. I refuse to let this house tear you apart.” The room fell into silence, even breathing seemed heavy. Their faces flushed, burning with both anger and disbelief.

“My God, so we’re left with nothing?” the eldest shouted. The second daughter protested, “You’ve betrayed your own children by doing this!” Their reproaches poured down like rain. Yet Mrs. Hiền no longer trembled; she simply replied calmly: “You each already have homes, your own lives. I only want peace in the days I have left.”

No one spoke further—only the sound of her slippers echoed as she slowly walked back to her room. At that moment, her heart felt astonishingly serene, as though a thousand-pound stone had been lifted. The next day, she packed a few clothes, some medicine, and a bundle of old photographs. She went to the small house where her granddaughter lived. “Grandma, you really came here?” the child exclaimed, eyes sparkling.

“Yes, I want to stay with you. I don’t need much, just a peaceful place to lean on.” The child burst into laughter and threw her arms around her. That frail embrace suddenly felt warmer than ever. Both cried, but they were tears of relief. From that moment, she knew she had chosen well.

News of her selling the house spread quickly through the neighborhood. Some praised her wisdom, others called her foolish. But everyone agreed she was strong. Sitting on the porch of her new home, listening to the chirping of birds, she felt utterly at ease. “At last, I have a little peace,” she whispered to herself.

Her children gradually calmed down and came to visit. One day, the third son sat beside her, hesitating: “Mother… I’m sorry. We were too selfish.” She stroked his head as she did when he was a boy: “It’s good that you understand. The most precious thing is family bonds, not the house.” Her words silenced them all, their eyes reddening with tears.

From then on, Mrs. Hiền lived with her granddaughter, listening each day to stories from school. Even the simplest meals tasted good because they were shared with laughter. At night, as she lay down, listening to the wind rustling the roof tiles, her heart no longer felt heavy. She was at peace, as if she had returned to the simplicity of her youth. On her wrinkled face still glowed a gentle joy.