The Boy Carrying His Sister Selling Mangoes Meets a Female Billionaire – A Piece of Paper Made Her Cry Like Rain in the Middle of the Street…

The boy carrying his sister selling mangoes met a female billionaire, and a piece of paper in his pocket made her burst into tears like rain in the middle of the street. If that noon she hadn’t happened to glance across the road, perhaps her whole life would have drifted by in silence, never knowing that a fragment of her memory had taken shape and was living under the scorching heat of Saigon.

A faint cough mingled with the small clinking sound of a knife at the Eastern Bus Station. In a hidden corner, a skinny, dark-skinned boy carried his little sister on his back. His bare feet were caked with road dust. His faded shirt had frayed shoulders, and the collar was wrinkled from sweat and sun. Phúc was only six years old, but in his jet-black eyes, there was no trace of the carefree innocence of childhood.

That gaze was half timid, half determined, as if he was already used to fending for himself and for someone more fragile. Na, his four-year-old sister, rested her head on his shoulder, her cheeks flushed with fever. Each time a cough escaped her lips, her tiny body trembled lightly. Her brother gently rubbed her back with his bony hand—slowly, carefully, afraid of hurting her.

In front of them was an old plastic tray with a few bags of golden mangoes neatly arranged. “Sweet mangoes, ma’am, please buy some,” Phúc called out, his voice weak but clear. He tried to speak loudly to drown out the noise of bus engines and other vendors. Many passersby looked at them—some with pity before hurrying away, others with a frown, as if the children were doing something wrong.

A woman in a floral dress and dark sunglasses stopped, pursing her lips. “My goodness, people nowadays even use kids to sell things for sympathy. So young and already parading around carrying your sister.”

Phúc lowered his head, his small shoulders trembling. “No, ma’am… I’m really selling mangoes. My sister is sick, I need money to buy her medicine.”

Na, hearing the stranger’s voice, raised her big round eyes in confusion before turning to chatter at an older man nearby: “Ma’am, I’m sick, and my brother says if we sell all the mangoes, we’ll have money to buy rice for Mommy. But where’s Mommy?”

That innocent question pierced the hearts of the adults like a needle. The woman who had just scolded them went silent and walked away. A few others stopped to look but didn’t stay long.

Across the street, a sleek black car had stopped. The window lowered, revealing the face of a young woman with light makeup but eyes carrying a deep sadness. Trâm sat still, her gaze unintentionally fixed on the street corner.

She saw the skinny boy carrying his sister, saw the little girl coughing, saw the tiny hand rubbing her back—and an unusual thump echoed in her chest. She thought about telling the driver to stop, but hesitated. In this city, there were countless struggling lives—she couldn’t help them all.

“Let’s go,” she said coldly.

The car rolled away, leaving behind the fading sound of the boy’s calls and the little girl’s cough. Trâm didn’t know that fleeting glance would be the beginning of a storm she could never have imagined.

The sun tilted west, and the air cooled slightly. Phúc carried Na on foot back to their rented room in Bình Thạnh District. That day, they sold only two bags of mangoes—just enough to buy a box of plain porridge and a few cold tablets for Na.

The alley leading to their lodging was dark and reeked of sewage. Their room, barely 10 square meters, held only a torn mat and a few old clothes in plastic bags. As soon as the two appeared, Mrs. Sáu, their landlady in her sixties with a plump figure and floral pajamas, stood with arms akimbo.

“Back already? How much did you sell?”

“Ma’am, we only sold two bags today,” Phúc replied, head bowed.

“My goodness, it’s been three months and you haven’t paid a single cent of rent. If I didn’t have a heart, I’d have thrown your stuff out long ago. How can you live being this sick all the time?” she scolded, though her tone couldn’t hide a trace of pity.

Phúc stayed silent. He was used to it. He knew Mrs. Sáu always scolded before helping. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he whispered.

“Sorry doesn’t put food on the table! Get your sister inside—the little one’s burning up,” she waved them off and turned away.

Phúc led Na inside. He wet a towel to wipe her face, then busied himself making thin porridge so she could take her medicine. While he worked, the half-closed door was gently pushed open, and a small bag of rice appeared outside. He didn’t need to look—he knew it was from Mrs. Sáu. It was always like this: scold first, help after.

After eating, Na hugged an old teddy bear and drifted off to sleep. Phúc sat beside her, staring blankly into space, when Na murmured, “Big brother… does Mommy love us?”

Phúc didn’t answer. In his memory, their mother was only a void. His world was Na and Mrs. Sáu.

At the same time, in a high-rise office downtown, Trâm—dressed in an elegant corporate suit—was in a meeting, speaking coldly and decisively about billion-dollar projects. When it ended, she returned to her private office.

The city lights sparkled through the large glass window, but to her eyes, they were nothing but an empty canvas.

Her husband, Thịnh, entered in a sharp suit, placing a cup of tea on her desk. “Working late again? How about we go to Singapore this weekend?”

“I’m not in the mood,” Trâm said softly, brushing his hand away.

Thịnh sighed. In the five years they’d been married, he had everything—except her heart.

He knew his wife had a past—a pain she had never spoken of.
“I don’t want you to keep tormenting yourself. It’s all in the past now.”

“I’m fine.” Her voice turned cold again.

Thịnh knew he couldn’t press further. He left, leaving her alone in the spacious room. Only when alone did Trâm’s strong façade crumble. The image of the boy carrying his sister in the midday heat kept returning to her—the girl’s cough, the boy’s prematurely aged eyes.

Eleven years. That much time had passed since the day she—just a 19-year-old girl—was forced to give away the child she had just brought into the world. A wound she thought had healed was now bleeding again.

The next day, on her way to meet a business partner, Trâm’s car passed by the bus station. She saw Phúc and Na again—Na still feverish and coughing. Without knowing why, she told the driver to pull over.

“You there, come here.” She lowered the car window.

“Yes, ma’am? Are you calling me?” Phúc hesitated, still carrying his sister.

“How much for a bag of mangoes?”

“Twenty thousand, ma’am. They’re very sweet.”

“I’ll take one bag.” She pulled out a 500,000₫ note. “Keep the change—buy medicine for your sister.”

The car drove away, leaving Phúc standing dazed. He tucked the bill away carefully, feeling both joy and worry.

That evening, when she got home, Trâm intended to have her housekeeper take the mangoes to the kitchen—but at the last moment told her to leave them.

Late at night, unable to sleep, she sat alone in the dark living room. Her gaze accidentally fell on the bag of mangoes. She opened it, meaning to take one out.

Her hand touched something hard and crinkled. She pulled out a small, old piece of paper, folded into quarters, as if torn from a school notebook.

Opening it under the dim yellow light, jagged, childish handwriting appeared:

“If Mommy sees me, please don’t hate me. I miss you, Mommy. I don’t know who you are.”

Just a few short words, but they struck like lightning. The bag slipped from her hands, golden mangoes scattering across the floor. Her whole body trembled violently.

That handwriting—it was hauntingly familiar, identical to a fragment of memory she had buried deep.

How could this piece of paper be inside that boy’s bag of mangoes?

She froze. In that moment, her entire world seemed to collapse.

---

All night, Trâm couldn’t close her eyes. The tiny note lay on the table in front of her like an old wound reopening.

Even though it was written in a child’s hand, she recognized the slanted lines and clumsy loops—exactly the way she herself had written eleven years ago.

Back then, she was just a 19-year-old girl, lost in Saigon, with a belly that grew larger every day.

Her father was cold; her mother wept silently. They saw her as a disgrace to the family. Her lover had vanished without a word.

Alone in a strange city, she refused to abort the baby despite her family’s threats. She worked every odd job she could—wiping tables, serving food, washing dishes—just to survive.

When labor came, the pain was endless. In a shabby, damp-smelling room, mixed with the scent of blood and sweat, she was both terrified and exhausted.

It was Mr. Lâm, a motorbike taxi driver at the alley’s entrance, who found her and rushed her to a small clinic.

There, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Her joy was short-lived. She had no money, no milk, and no safe place to stay.

Her family soon found her. They gave her no choice—they forced her to hand the baby to a childless couple.

Before letting go, in her panic, she tore a page from her notebook and, with trembling hands, wrote:

“If Mommy sees me, please don’t hate me. I miss you, Mommy. I don’t know who you are.”

She tucked it into his diaper, along with a red thread bracelet she always wore on her wrist.

She told herself—or tried to believe—that someday, by some miracle, her son would return to her.

And now, that very note had appeared in the mangoes of a strange boy.

She sat unmoving until the pale light of dawn crept through the curtains. Without makeup, without designer clothes, she put on a light-colored shirt, jeans, and flats. For the first time in years, she stepped out without her glamorous armor.

---

The bus station in the early morning was still noisy—engine roars, vendors calling out, goods being loaded—a tired chorus of sounds.

Trâm walked through the narrow lanes, scanning every corner. She stood at the exact spot she had seen them the day before.

One hour passed. Then two. The sun grew harsh; sweat beaded on her forehead. But still, no sign of the siblings.

She turned to a nearby herbal tea vendor.

“Auntie, did you see two little kids—a boy and a girl—selling mangoes here today?”

The older woman eyed her from head to toe.

“Why are you asking about them? You planning to scold them or something?”

“No, no,” Trâm quickly waved her hands. “I bought mangoes from them yesterday. The little girl was sick, and I wanted to take her to the doctor.”

The vendor’s tone softened. “Na’s been sick for days. Probably the brother stayed home to take care of her. They live in a boarding house in alley 1997. Ask for Mrs. Sáu—people will point you there.”

Grateful, Trâm thanked her and hurried off.

The alley was dark and cramped, with the smell of garbage and sewage making her frown. She stepped over broken bricks and tangled wires until she reached a row of old, single-story houses.

Mrs. Sáu, plump with silvered hair, was carrying a bucket of water out from inside.

Seeing a well-dressed stranger at her gate, she squinted. “Who are you looking for?”

“Excuse me, do two children named Phúc and Na live here?”

“Are you from the ward office? Or a charity group?” Her tone was wary.

“No, I’m just a passerby who wants to help them,” Trâm said gently.

Mrs. Sáu folded her arms. “Help? In this day and age, no one gives something for nothing. If you have intentions, say them outright. Those kids may be poor, but it doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.”

Trâm hesitated. She couldn’t say out loud that she suspected the boy might be her son.

Mrs. Sáu shook her head. “Just go home. No one by that name here.” She shut the gate.

Trâm stood there for a moment, then turned away, her heart heavy.

---

Back at her office, she sat motionless. Ngọc, her personal assistant, brought in documents, immediately sensing something was wrong.

“Are you feeling unwell? Should I reschedule your meetings?”

“No need,” Trâm paused. “Ngọc… I need you to help me with something. Absolute secrecy.”

Ngọc nodded.

Trâm told her about the two children, the note, and asked her to pose as a student researching street children to find out more.

That afternoon, Ngọc dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a backpack, and headed to alley 1997. She chatted casually with shopkeepers at the entrance, then subtly inquired.

She learned that Phúc and Na had no parents—Mrs. Sáu had raised them since they were small. The one who brought them was Mr. Lâm, the motorbike driver.

That evening, Ngọc returned, watching from a distance as Phúc washed clothes for his sister, then fed Na porridge. The two curled up together on a torn mat to sleep.

The sight stunned her. She snapped a photo and sent it to Trâm.

When Trâm saw it, tears streamed down her face. That picture convinced her—this was her son.

---

In the following days, Ngọc continued visiting, bringing porridge, milk, and snacks, saying they were donations from a student group. Gradually, Mrs. Sáu and the neighbors warmed up to her.

Na happily chattered with Ngọc, but Phúc remained cautious and quiet.

A week later, Na’s health improved. Trâm could no longer hold back—she decided to go herself.

Dressed simply, carrying chicken porridge and toys, she entered the alley.

At the sight of her, Mrs. Sáu frowned. “You again?”

“I told you, I just want to visit the kids and bring some nutritious food,” Trâm pleaded.

Na ran out, eyes bright at the sight of chicken porridge. “Big brother! Chicken porridge—it smells so good!”

Phúc stepped in front of his sister, staring intently.

“Don’t you like chicken porridge? Should I get you something else?” Trâm asked with a careful smile.

It was a long while before Phúc spoke, his childish voice steady but firm.
“Aunt Sáu says we can’t take food from strangers… what if you take my sister away?”

The words pierced Trâm’s heart like a knife. She froze. This wasn’t just suspicion—it was a fear deeply rooted in the boy. She hurriedly stood up, stepped back, and turned to leave the alley, ignoring Aunt Sáu’s voice calling from behind.

As she drove, tears streamed down her face.
What if you take my sister away? The question kept echoing in her head. She realized that to approach this boy, she would need undeniable proof. She called Ngọc:
“Help me check Phúc and Na’s birth certificates. I need to know their exact birth dates and places of birth.”

Ngọc began tracking down Mr. Lâm. At first, he was guarded, but eventually revealed that six years ago, he had driven a young woman named Trâm to give birth at An Sinh Clinic. She had tucked a slip of paper into her baby son’s blanket and asked him to keep it. She died shortly after giving birth.

He showed Ngọc the birth record—the mother’s name was Đỗ Thị Thu Châm, born in 2000. Ngọc was stunned—that was her boss’s name. But the baby’s date of birth was 15/05/2019, meaning he was only six years old. Ngọc sent a photo of the document to Trâm.

As soon as she saw it, Trâm burst into tears. But the dates didn’t match her memory from eleven years ago. She was torn—was her memory wrong, or was this a strange coincidence? She decided she had to meet Mr. Lâm in person.

The next morning, she arranged to meet him at a small café near the Eastern Bus Station. The shop was tucked away in an alley, with worn wooden tables and chairs, and the smell of roasted coffee hanging in the air.

Mr. Lâm arrived on time, thin and weathered from a lifetime on the road. His old helmet hung loosely from the handlebars of his motorbike outside.

“You’re Trâm Hà?” he asked as soon as he sat down, his raspy voice carrying both surprise and suspicion.

Trâm nodded, forcing her voice to stay calm. “Yes, sir. I’d like to know the whole story about the two children, Phúc and Na. Could you tell me from the beginning?”

He was silent for a while, as if weighing his words. Then he sighed, his eyes drifting away.

“Six years ago, I picked up a passenger from the bus station heading to An Sinh. She was a young woman, heavily pregnant, writhing in pain. She said she had no money and asked me to take her to the clinic. I waited there until the evening. The nurse came out saying mother and child were fine—a healthy baby boy.”

He took a slow sip of coffee before continuing.
“When I was about to leave, she called me over. Her face was pale, drenched in sweat. She pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand, telling me to put it in the baby’s blanket. She said, ‘If one day you meet him again, give this to him.’ Then she passed out.

That night, a heavy rain fell. The next morning, when I returned, the clinic told me she had died. No one came to claim the baby, so they handed him over to the orphanage. I felt sorry for him, so I asked Aunt Sáu to raise him.”

Trâm listened in stunned silence, each word cutting deeper into her mind. But one detail troubled her.

“Are you sure of the woman’s name?”

Mr. Lâm pulled an old, yellowed birth record from his wallet.
“It’s written right here—Đỗ Thị Thu Châm, born 2000.”

Trâm took the document, her hands trembling. It was indeed her name, but the date was from six years ago, not eleven. She had never given birth that year. Who was that woman? A strange coincidence—or a hidden secret?

“Do you still have that piece of paper?” Trâm asked, her voice hoarse.

Mr. Lâm nodded. “It’s with Phúc. But I remember the handwriting—it didn’t look like a child’s. It was as if an adult had written it on purpose for a child to read.”

That only deepened Trâm’s confusion.

Leaving the café, she drove straight to the bus station instead of going home. The sun hadn’t yet scorched the streets. She stood at the same corner as the day before.

Before long, Phúc appeared, Na on his back, carrying a tray of mangoes. Trâm walked toward him.

“What do you want?” the boy asked warily.

“I just want to buy some mangoes,” she smiled, pulling out a 100,000 note.
“How much for a bag?”

“Twenty thousand,” Phúc answered curtly. She took one bag, letting her fingers deliberately brush against his thin hand. A strange warmth shot through her body. She wanted to ask him so much, but held back.

From his back, Na poked her head out and grinned.
“Auntie, I’m not sick anymore today.”

That simple statement made Trâm’s throat tighten.

That afternoon, back home, she found a small piece of paper inside the mango bag. This time, the scrawled handwriting was different:

“Mom, I’m here.”

Her heart pounded. There was no doubt now—someone was trying to send her a signal.

But who? Phúc? Na? Or someone behind them?

She decided she had to approach Aunt Sáu again.

That evening, she went to the boarding house. Aunt Sáu sat in front of her door, fanning herself. Seeing Trâm, her brow furrowed.

“You’re here for the kids again?”

“Yes, I’m sorry for bothering you, but I really want to help. I can cover their medicine, food, and schooling—just please allow me.”

Aunt Sáu looked deeply into her eyes, as if searching for something. Then she asked slowly:
“Do you know their real mother?”

The question stunned Trâm. She hesitated.
“No… I don’t.”

Aunt Sáu sighed. “Alright. But I’ll warn you—someone once tried to trick them and almost took them away. Since then, Phúc doesn’t trust strangers. If you want to help, you’ll have to take it slow.”

Trâm nodded. She knew this wouldn’t be easy.

In the following days, she made a habit of stopping by the bus station whenever she had time—buying mangoes and chatting a little. Phúc remained reserved, but Na gradually warmed to her, telling her how she was getting better, how Aunt Sáu fed them, how her brother always gave her the better portion.

One time, as she handed Na a bottle of water, Phúc suddenly asked:
“Do you have kids?”

Trâm froze. “No,” she answered softly.

“If you did… would you abandon them?”

The question felt like a hand squeezing her heart. She wanted to hug the boy right then, but only shook her head.
“No. I would never leave them.”

Phúc said nothing, but his eyes softened.

That night, when she got home, Trâm received a message from an unknown number:
“If you want to know the truth about the two kids, meet me at the eatery at the start of Alley 1997, 9 a.m. tomorrow.”

No signature. No name. But her instincts told her this was a turning point.

The next morning, she arrived nearly half an hour early. The small eatery had plastic tables and chairs, with the smell of braised pork and sour soup drifting from the kitchen in the back.

The owner, seeing she was a stranger, smiled politely but her eyes flickered with curiosity.

She chose the table by the window and sat quietly, eyes fixed on the street. Motorbikes zipped past in a constant stream, and the sound of a delivery call echoed from the alleyway. Time seemed to move slowly. When the clock struck exactly 9:00, a thin woman with her hair in a bun, wearing an old brown bà ba shirt, stepped inside.

Her eyes swept around the eatery, and when she spotted Trâm, she gave a small nod. She pulled out a chair opposite and sat down without ordering anything, speaking in a low voice, “You’re the one who’s been asking about Phúc and Vạn Na these past few days, right?”
“Yes,” Trâm replied cautiously.
“My name’s Bảy. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for years. I know about those kids… and about something Mrs. Sáu never told you.”

Trâm leaned forward, heart pounding. “Please tell me.”
Mrs. Bảy glanced out the window as if to make sure no one was listening, then lowered her voice. “Six years ago, it wasn’t just one child that Mr. Lâm brought back. There were two—a boy and a girl. The girl was carried by another woman who came with him. That woman disappeared overnight.”

Trâm frowned. “So Na isn’t Phúc’s biological sister?”
Mrs. Bảy nodded. “But since they were little, Phúc has always clung to her, protecting her like a real sister. No one dared say otherwise. Mrs. Sáu loved them both, treated them like her own.”

A strange mix of affection and curiosity rose in Trâm’s chest.
“What about the piece of paper? Do you know where it came from?”
“I heard Phúc always kept an old scrap of paper with him, but lately he’s been slipping it into the mango bags, almost like he wants someone to find it. You ask me, I think he’s looking for his mother.”

The words left Trâm speechless.

Leaving the diner, she didn’t go home right away but walked into the alley. Near the row of boarding houses, she spotted Phúc sitting under the almond tree, peeling a mango. Na sat beside him, playing with a calico cat.

“Hi, you two,” Trâm smiled.
Na ran over, chattering, “Auntie, yesterday Mrs. Sáu gave me flan. It was so good!”
Phúc only glanced up briefly, then kept peeling.

Trâm sat down on a plastic chair next to him. “Phúc, the other day when I bought mangoes from you, I found a piece of paper in the bag. Did you write it?”

His small hands froze. He looked up, eyes both wary and uncertain.
“Did you read it?”
“I did,” Trâm said softly. “I want to know why you wrote that.”

He was silent for a long time, then spoke in a voice so quiet that Trâm had to lean closer. “I don’t remember my mother’s face, but I thought… if I put the paper in a mango bag, maybe one day she’d be the one to buy it.”

A lump formed in Trâm’s throat. She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady.
“You really want to meet her, don’t you?”
He nodded. His eyes brightened for a moment, then dimmed quickly, as if afraid to hope too much.

That afternoon, Trâm met with Ngọc and told her everything Mrs. Bảy had said. Ngọc sat in thought.
“So there’s still a chance Phúc is your son. But there’s a time discrepancy. I think we should do a DNA test to be sure.”
“I know… but how can I get a sample without scaring the boy?” Trâm sighed.

Ngọc thought for a moment, then suggested, “I’ll try to go through Mrs. Sáu. In the meantime, you just get closer to him.”

A few days later, the chance came. Mrs. Sáu called to say Na had a fever again and asked if Trâm could take her to the hospital because she was busy. Trâm rushed over and lifted Na onto the motorbike.

Phúc insisted on coming too, sitting in the back, holding his sister tightly. At the hospital, the doctor ordered a blood test for Na to rule out dengue fever. While waiting, Trâm discreetly asked a nurse to collect a hair sample from Phúc while he napped on the chair.

She knew she was stepping over a fragile line between truth and the fear of rejection.

A week later, the DNA results arrived. Ngọc brought the envelope to Trâm’s home, placing it on the table.
“Want me to open it?”
Trâm shook her head and tore the seal herself. Her eyes froze on the bolded words: Mother-child relationship: 99.99%.

Tears welled up instantly. She wanted to shout, to run and hug the boy right now. But reason held her back. She had to make him trust and accept her; she couldn’t just burst in with the truth and expect him to open his heart.

That evening, Trâm went back to the bus terminal. Seeing her, Phúc gave a small smile—for the first time since they met. Na ran up, beaming, “I’m not sick anymore, Auntie!”

Trâm patted her head and looked at Phúc. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Can I take you both out to play?”
Phúc hesitated, then nodded.

She knew tomorrow would be a turning point.

Sunday dawned clear. Trâm drove to Alley 1997 early. Mrs. Sáu was sitting out front, picking vegetables.
“You’re taking them out today? That boy’s been talking about it since dawn,” she said with a warm smile.

Phúc and Na appeared in the doorway. Na wore a faded pale-yellow dress, hair tied in two ponytails. Phúc wore jeans and a crisp white shirt, hair neatly combed.

“Where are we going, Auntie?” Na asked eagerly.
“To the water park, then ice cream,” Trâm replied, hiding her excitement.

On the ride, Na chattered nonstop about school, a bird’s nest in the almond tree, and how Mr. Lâm had bought them candy. Phúc was quieter but occasionally glanced at Trâm, his gaze no longer guarded.

At the water park, Na squealed at the sight of towering slides and wave pools. At first, Phúc stayed close to his sister, avoiding the rides, but after some reassurance, he finally tried one. His first laugh rang out when all three of them splashed into the pool together.

They ate lunch under a tree. Watching them, Trâm felt warmth spread through her chest—she had missed so many years of her son’s life. Afterward, they went for ice cream. Na chose strawberry, Phúc chose vanilla.

Between bites, Trâm asked quietly, “Phúc… do you miss your mom?”
He paused, spoon in midair. “I don’t remember her face… but I remember someone holding me really tight.”

Her vision blurred. She bent down, pretending to wipe Na’s mouth to hide her tears.

That evening, when they returned, Mrs. Sáu met them at the door. “Thank you, they had such a great time.”

But just as Trâm got home, her phone rang—it was Mrs. Sáu, her voice urgent.
“Trâm… I think someone’s been watching the kids since this afternoon. Standing at the end of the alley, staring in.”

A chill ran down Trâm’s spine. She immediately turned back toward Alley 1997. When she arrived, she saw a man in a black jacket and cap smoking at the corner. The moment he saw her, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Mrs. Sáu pulled her inside and shut the door.
“I’ve seen him hanging around for days. The last time the kids almost got kidnapped, it was a man dressed like that.”

Trâm clenched her fists. She knew now—this was no longer just about finding her son. Phúc and Na’s safety was in real danger.

That evening, Trâm called Ngọc over to her house and told her everything. Ngọc suggested going to the police, but Trâm wanted to investigate first. She believed someone was targeting the two children and that it might be connected to their past.

“Ngọc, help me check who has tried to adopt or look for information about Phúc and Na over the years,” Trâm said firmly. Ngọc nodded; she knew that once Trâm had made up her mind, nothing could change it.

That night, Trâm lay in bed, tossing and turning. The sound of rain tapping against the window brought back memories of that rainy night eleven years ago—the night she lost her child. The image of the man in black lingered in her mind. She knew time was running out; she had to protect her child at all costs.

The next morning, as soon as the sky lightened, Trâm was already at alley 1997. She wanted to see with her own eyes that Phúc and Na were still safe. Mrs. Sáu was sweeping the yard. Seeing her, the old woman smiled, “You’re here early today.”

“Yes, I want to wait for the kids, take them out for breakfast, and then walk them to school,” Trâm replied, scanning around. Phúc was wearing his backpack, ready to take Na out.

When Na saw Trâm, she cheered, “Auntie, today our teacher let us wear pretty clothes because we’re taking commemorative photos!” Trâm gently patted her head and led both of them to the pho stall at the corner.

During breakfast, Phúc seemed quieter than usual. When Trâm asked, he only said, “Last night, I saw someone standing outside my bedroom window.” Her chopsticks tightened in her grip. “Did you see his face?” she asked. “No, only a dark shadow.”

After dropping the children at school, Trâm immediately called Ngọc and told her. Ngọc quickly suggested installing cameras around the boarding house. The two went to buy them and asked a friend to set them up discreetly.

That afternoon, Trâm picked up the children and pretended nothing was wrong. She wanted the stalker to think she was unaware. That evening, the three of them were eating sweet soup with Mrs. Sáu. The atmosphere seemed peaceful—until Trâm was about to leave. Her phone buzzed with a camera alert.

On the screen appeared a man in black wearing a baseball cap, standing right outside Phúc’s window, peering in. “It’s him,” Trâm whispered. Mrs. Sáu trembled. “Oh God, it’s him again.” Without hesitation, Trâm rushed out the door, but by the time she reached the end of the alley, he had vanished.

The next day, Trâm decided to take the children to stay at her house for a few days. At first, Phúc refused. “I don’t want to go far. Mrs. Sáu will be alone.” Trâm knelt down and looked him in the eyes, promising to take care of Mrs. Sáu. But right now, their safety came first. Phúc wavered, then finally nodded.

Na enjoyed the stay—she loved the soft bed and the many storybooks—but Phúc remained distant. Though less guarded, he often stood on the balcony, staring down the street as if waiting for someone.

One evening, while Trâm was washing dishes, Phúc quietly approached. “If my mother comes to find me, will you tell me?” Trâm froze, heart pounding. She nodded softly. “I will.” The answer seemed to ease him. He went back to his room without another word.

Three days later, the alley camera alerted again. Ngọc called. “He’s back. But this time, he’s not alone—there’s a young woman in a hat talking to him.”

“Did you get her face?” Trâm asked, frowning.

“Not clearly, but I think she was holding a little girl.”

A wave of suspicion rose in Trâm’s mind. Could this group be child traffickers? And why were they fixated on Phúc and Na?

That night, Trâm couldn’t sleep. She opened her cupboard and took out the old document Mr. Lâm had given her—the birth certificate in her name. Looking at the handwritten date of birth, something felt off. The next morning, she decided to go to the An Sinh clinic where Mr. Lâm said he had taken the baby’s mother years ago.

The small clinic stood by a village road. She met an elderly nurse, introduced herself as a relative, and asked to see old records. The nurse flipped through the logbook, then looked up.

“Yes, there was a birth under the name Trâm that year, but many pages are missing. Strangely, someone came to see the file a week before you.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. They only said they were family.”

Trâm clenched her fists. She knew she was getting closer to the truth—but that also meant greater danger for her and the children.

When she returned home, Phúc ran out to greet her. For the first time, the boy took her hand.

“Auntie, last night I dreamed of my mother. She was far away, calling me, but someone was pulling her away.”

Trâm hugged him tightly, choking up. In that moment, she vowed to find whoever was behind all this so the boy would never lose his mother again.

That morning, as she was making coffee, her phone rang nonstop.

It was Ngọc, her voice urgent. “Trâm, I found out about the man in black. His real name is Lợi. He has a criminal record for child trafficking and was released a year ago. As for the woman with him, I don’t know her name, but I found one link—they were both in An Sinh at the exact same time as your child’s birth record.”

Trâm’s heart pounded. The pieces were falling into place, but there were still gaps. She decided she could no longer wait. After sending Na to school, she asked Phúc to come along, saying they’d take a trip. Their destination: An Sinh, the place tied to both their pasts.

The road to the small town was lined with sugarcane fields, with only a few shabby houses here and there. The clinic Mr. Lâm once mentioned stood quietly by the roadside, its yellow paint peeling. Inside, Trâm met the same elderly nurse from before. The woman recognized her and nodded.

“Looking for the records again?”

“Yes. But this time, I want to know exactly who came before me.”

The nurse hesitated, then sighed. “I only remember she had a red birthmark behind her left ear. She was with a tall, thin man with a rugged face.”

Phúc, who had been silent, suddenly spoke up. “Auntie, I’ve seen that man near the bus station.”

The words made Trâm shiver.

After leaving the clinic, she took Phúc to a small roadside drink stall. While waiting for their drinks, she asked, “Are you sure it’s the same person?”

Phúc nodded, his eyes far more serious than his age. “I remember very clearly. He looked at us like he wanted to take us away.”

Trâm took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. She knew the danger was closing in.

That afternoon, when she got home, she found an envelope on her doorstep with no sender’s name. Inside was a photo of Phúc and Na playing at the bus station, along with a note:

If you want to protect them, stay out of matters that don’t concern you.

That night, Trâm clenched the paper in her hand, anger surging, but at the same time a cold fear seeped into her heart. In the evening, she called Ngọc over to show her the photo. Ngọc frowned, “Clearly, he’s watching closely. We can’t let the kids go out alone anymore.”
“I know, but I can’t keep them locked up forever.”

Trâm glanced toward the bedroom, where Phúc and Na were fast asleep. She had to find a way to end this. Ngọc stayed silent. Both of them understood that ending it meant facing the one behind it all directly.

The next day, Trâm pretended to take Na to school as usual, but in reality, Ngọc followed discreetly to see if anyone was tailing them. Just as they suspected, a black motorbike trailed behind. The rider wore a helmet pulled low, face hidden, but his build strongly resembled Lợi.

Ngọc followed him to a small house on the outskirts — a single-story structure with gray walls and a partly open iron gate. She quickly noted the address and hurried back to tell Trâm.

That evening, as the two were discussing their plan, Phúc stepped out of his room.
“Auntie, I heard everything. I want to help.”

Trâm stared in surprise. “You’re still a child — it’s too dangerous.”
Phúc shook his head. “I’ve lived on the streets since I was little. I know how to hide, how to watch. If they’re really after me, I have to face it.”

The determined look in the boy’s eyes left Trâm speechless. She realized he already had a strong will — something that might be the very thing to help both of them weather this storm.

That night, Trâm didn’t sleep. She sat by the bed, watching Phúc and Na as they dreamed. Her son’s small hand rested lightly on his sister’s as if promising to protect her. Silently, she vowed, Whoever you are, whatever the past is, I will never let anyone take my child again.

The next afternoon, Ngọc brought Trâm a map of the outskirts where Lợi’s house was located. She pointed to a narrow back road. “This path is tight, hardly anyone passes through. If we need to approach, we go this way for cover.”

Trâm sat beside her, eyes fixed on the map. “But we don’t know how many people are inside. What if he’s not alone?”
“Don’t worry,” Ngọc cut in. “I’ve watched. In the daytime, it’s almost always just him coming and going. That woman from before hasn’t been seen.”

That evening, Trâm sent Na to stay with a trusted friend. When Phúc found out, he insisted on coming along. Trâm hesitated for a long time before agreeing, but only on the condition that he observe from a distance and not get close. Phúc nodded firmly, but in his eyes burned a determination she had never seen before.

At dusk, the three of them — Trâm, Ngọc, and Phúc — crept along the narrow dirt path behind the house. The barking of dogs echoed from the front yard, but the back was quiet. They crouched behind a low wall and watched.

Through the crack of an open window, Trâm saw Lợi smoking, a phone and a stack of papers in front of him. Under the dim yellow light, she spotted a photograph — it was of Phúc, about three years old. Her heart clenched. Why does he have this?

Ngọc signaled for silence and discreetly snapped a photo with her phone. At that moment, a woman’s voice came from the next room:
“When are you handing over the kids? Waiting for the client to pay in full?”
Lợi’s deep, husky voice replied, “We have to be careful this time. That woman’s son won’t be easy to catch.”

Trâm’s nails dug into her palm. She knew exactly who they meant. Suddenly, Phúc tugged at her sleeve and whispered, “Auntie, I know that woman’s voice. She gave Na candy in front of the school the other day.”

Trâm froze — another piece of the puzzle was falling into place. They pulled back before being noticed.

Back home, she and Ngọc reviewed the video they had taken. Although the images weren’t crystal clear, the voices and the old photograph of Phúc were crucial evidence.
“Sis, we need to call the police,” Ngọc said firmly.
Trâm nodded. She knew it was time to involve the law, but also that it needed careful planning — one wrong move and the children could be in immediate danger.

That night, Trâm called a friend in the criminal investigation unit. He told her to come in the next morning to present everything.

Before bed, she went to check on Phúc and found him still awake, hugging his pillow.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked, sitting beside him.
He shook his head. “I was thinking… if my mom knew I was in danger, she’d come right away.”
Trâm swallowed the lump in her throat, gently rubbing his back. “I believe your mom is looking for you. And I promise — I won’t let you be taken from her ever again.”

The next morning, as she was about to leave, another envelope was lying at the door. This time, inside was just a single sentence: Don’t try calling the police — they’ll disappear before you can do anything.

Her throat went dry. Someone was watching her every move. She looked out at the street — traffic moved as normal — but somewhere out there could be a pair of eyes tracking her.

That afternoon, Trâm sat in a quiet café across from Trung, her friend from the investigation unit. Dressed in plain clothes, his voice was steady and serious.
“If it’s exactly as you say, these people are dangerous. But to nail them, we need to catch them red-handed.”

It meant they had to let them make a move. Trâm frowned. Trung nodded, “But don’t worry, we’ll have people following closely. The question is—are you ready to be the bait?”

The question made Trâm freeze. She knew the risk was great, but if they didn’t act, the stalking would continue. “I’ll do it,” she replied firmly.

The plan was set: Trâm would take Phúc and Na to the central park, pretending to be careless so Lợi would show his face. The surveillance team would surround them, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The day before the operation, Trâm brought the two children to Ngọc’s house, telling them they would be going away on a trip. She told Ngọc, “If anything happens, take them and leave immediately—don’t wait for me.” Ngọc gripped her friend’s hand. “Be careful.”

The next morning, Trâm drove Phúc and Na to the park. She pretended to buy drinks while the children played near the kids’ playground. Not far away, Trung and his team were disguised as joggers, street vendors, even an old man fishing by the pond.

About fifteen minutes later, Trâm spotted a familiar figure—Lợi—in a black jacket and cap, walking slowly around the playground. A young woman followed a few steps behind, holding a plastic bag, her eyes constantly darting toward Na.

Trâm’s heart pounded, but she kept her composure, stepping back to observe. Suddenly, the woman moved quickly toward them, bending down to offer Na some candy. Phúc immediately stepped in front of his sister, eyes sharp with suspicion. Lợi circled around from behind, trying to trap them.

“Now,” Trâm whispered into the tiny earpiece hidden in her hair.

Three figures closed in from different directions, subduing Lợi. The young woman panicked and ran, but was intercepted by another officer. The shout of “Police!” rang out across the park, drawing startled glances.

Phúc clutched Na tightly, his eyes wide. Trâm rushed over, kneeling before them. “It’s okay now. I’m here.”
Na whimpered, “They wanted to take us.”
“No one will take you again,” Trâm said, wrapping both in her arms.

At the police station, Lợi and the woman—named Thảo—were interrogated. At first, they denied everything, but with the video evidence and witness statements, Lợi was forced to confess. He admitted receiving an order from an unidentified woman to find and deliver the two children to a location near the border.

When asked why, he simply said, “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I just do it for the money.”

Hearing this, Trâm’s chest tightened. Who was behind all this, and why target Phúc and Na?

That evening, when bringing the children back to Ngọc’s, Phúc suddenly asked, “Why do they want to take us?”
Trâm hesitated, then held his hand. “Maybe because of your past. But I promise I’ll find out the truth.”

Phúc nodded, his eyes showing more understanding than his years.

That night, Trâm reviewed all the documents she had—birth certificates, old testimonies, DNA results. Everything pointed to one thing: eleven years ago, someone had deliberately separated the children from their mother.

Catching Lợi and Thảo was only the first step. The real mastermind was still out there—and they wouldn’t give up easily.

After the arrests, things seemed quiet, but Trâm knew this was only the calm before the storm. The person behind it all hadn’t shown themselves, meaning the danger was still real.

On Monday morning, Trung called—Lợi and Thảo had revealed something new. They received payment from a bank account under a fake name, but the cash was withdrawn by a woman named Tuyết.

Trâm froze. Tuyết was the former manager at the orphanage where Phúc and Na had stayed. The memory hit her hard—years ago, when she first came to the orphanage asking for information, Tuyết had coldly told her there were no records left.

Without hesitation, Trâm and Ngọc went to the orphanage. It looked older now, paint peeling, the yard littered with dry leaves. When Tuyết saw Trâm, she was momentarily startled but quickly regained her composure.

“Who are you looking for?”
“I need to ask you about two children who used to live here—Phúc and Na,” Trâm said firmly.

Tuyết frowned. “There are many children here. I can’t remember them all.”

Ngọc stepped forward, placing a photo of Lợi and Thảo at the park on the table. “They said you gave them the money. Care to explain?”

Tuyết’s face paled, her eyes darting around for an escape route. But Trung and another officer stepped out from the shadows, blocking her way.

In her old office, under pressure from the evidence, Tuyết began to talk. Her voice shook.

“Years ago, a woman came to me, offering money to alter the records of two children. I thought it was for adoption—I didn’t know who she really was.”

Trâm’s heart raced. “Do you know her name?”
“I don’t know her real name. She always wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat, and had a red birthmark behind her left ear.”

The description made Trâm instantly recall what the nurse at the clinic had once said. The puzzle pieces were falling into place.

Leaving the orphanage, Trâm felt both anger and dread. She told Ngọc, “This woman must be the final link. But finding her will be hard—no name, no address.”

Ngọc thought for a moment. “We know her physical features. If we’re lucky, we can check temporary residence records or cameras where she’s been.”

Trung promised full support, but warned Trâm to be careful. If the woman knew Lợi and Thảo were caught, she might move to silence witnesses—and the biggest witnesses were Phúc and Na.

That afternoon, as Trâm picked the children up from school, Phúc asked, “If you find my mom, will I get to live with her?”
Trâm paused, then smiled. “If that’s what you want, I’ll do everything I can to make it happen.”

Phúc nodded, but a faint worry still lingered in his eyes.

That evening, as they were having dinner, Ngọc called, her voice low but excited. “Trâm, I think I’ve found her.”

A security camera near the northern border had captured a woman with a red birthmark behind her ear—the timing matched Lợi’s statement.

Trâm’s heart pounded. Where she was now was still unknown, but if it was her, she might still be trying to move someone across the border.

Trâm gripped her phone tightly. She knew if they didn’t act fast, the woman could vanish forever.

The next morning, Trâm and Trung went to the investigation office. On the table were the photos taken from the border security cameras.

The woman in the photo wore a wide-brimmed hat, her hair neatly tied up, and a scarf wrapped high around her neck. Yet from the side, the red birthmark behind her left ear was clearly visible. Trung pointed to the photo. “For now, we’ll call her Red Eye.” Based on information from the clinic, the orphanage, and Lợi’s testimony, there was a high probability she was the one who had hired them.

Trâm stared at the image, a surge of fury rising inside her.
For all these years, because of this woman, she had been separated from her mother.

The plan was drawn up: the reconnaissance team would coordinate with local border police, setting traps along the routes the woman might take. Trâm wanted to join the operation, but Trung was firm:
“You just make sure the children are safe. Once she’s caught, we’ll let you know right away.”

Reluctantly, Trâm agreed, though unease gnawed at her.

Three days later, word came in—Red Eye had been spotted at a border-town market, walking with a little girl about six years old. The reconnaissance team immediately tailed her, but she was highly alert, constantly changing direction and weaving into the crowd. Near the bus station, she suddenly abandoned the girl with an unknown man and slipped into a narrow alley.

The officers had to choose: pursue her or secure the child’s safety. In the end, they chose to protect the girl, and once again, she escaped.

When Trâm heard the news, she clenched her fists, a wave of despair washing over her.
But Trung reassured her: “She may have gotten away, but we saved a child. More importantly, we know she’s still operating in this area.”

That afternoon, as Trâm was bringing Phúc and Na home from school, she noticed a motorbike tailing them. It wasn’t Lợi or Thảo—they were still in custody—but a tall, thin man she didn’t recognize.

Trâm pretended to turn into a supermarket, and as she suspected, the man followed her in. Quick-thinking, she texted Ngọc: Someone’s following me—call Trung.

Less than ten minutes later, Trung and two teammates arrived, blending in as shoppers while quietly closing in.

When the man stepped out into the parking lot, they moved in and restrained him.

At the station, he gave his name as Minh—a henchman of Red Eye. His job was to track Trâm’s movements and report back. When asked why, he kept repeating, “I just follow orders.”

But in a careless moment, Minh let something slip:
“She said the boy would be taken right after the Spring Festival.”

The words made Trâm’s blood run cold. The festival was less than two weeks away.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Sitting in the living room, she looked through the slightly open door at Phúc and Na sleeping peacefully. The soft glow of the lamp fell across her son’s face, filling her with both tenderness and fear.

Two weeks, she thought. I only have two weeks to end this.

The town was alive with preparations for the Spring Festival. Flags and flowers lined the streets, the sound of lion dance drums echoing through the air.

But to Trâm, each beat of the drum was a reminder that time was slipping away.

When Trung called, they decided the trap would be set during the festival itself. The large crowd would allow them to blend in, while also giving Red Eye the perfect chance to make her move.

Trâm paused before answering.
“I’ll take Phúc and Na there—but you have to make sure they’re fully protected.”
“Don’t worry,” Trung replied. “At least six undercover officers will be surrounding you.”

The week leading up to the event, Trâm kept life as normal as possible—taking the children to school by day, sharing dinner and conversation at night. She didn’t want them to feel pressured or afraid.

But Phúc seemed to sense more than she realized.
One night, he asked, “If someone tries to take me again, what will you do?”
Trâm met his eyes. “I won’t let anyone get near you—not even one step.”
He nodded slightly, then pulled the blanket over his head.

When the festival day arrived, the streets were packed—food stalls, carnival games, lion dances. Trâm wore a light-colored coat so the officers could spot her easily. Phúc and Na held hands, their eyes wide at the bright costumes and dancing lions.

Trâm smiled, but her gaze kept sweeping the crowd.

An hour later, Ngọc’s voice came through the earpiece:
“A woman, wide-brimmed hat, long coat, approaching from the east. Matches the description exactly.”

Trâm’s heart tightened, but she kept calm, guiding the children into a more crowded game area. Six undercover officers shifted into position, forming an invisible shield.

The woman moved closer, stopping at a balloon stall, pretending to browse—but her eyes never left Phúc.

Trung signaled everyone to be ready. The moment she made a move, they’d act.

Suddenly, a lion dance troupe surged forward, blocking their view. When they passed, she was gone.

From the west, an officer shouted—Trâm gripped the children’s hands and ran in the indicated direction. Through the crowd, they spotted her weaving through people, glancing back as if to make sure Trâm was following.

Trung gestured to hold back—let her think the plan was working.

They tailed her to a narrow alley behind the night market. A silver van waited there, side door slightly open.

Just as she tried to push another child inside, three officers closed in.
“Police!” one shouted, while another blocked the alley’s exit.

The woman fought violently, her eyes burning red. “You don’t understand—” she started, but Trung cut her off, reading her the arrest warrant.

Outside, Trâm clutched Phúc and Na tightly, feeling part of her burden lift.

But as the woman was led away, her gaze at Phúc wasn’t one of hatred—it was something strange, a mix of regret and pain.

A question burned in Trâm’s mind: Who is this woman to my son?

In the interrogation room, the woman with the red birthmark sat across from Trung. She was in her forties, gaunt-faced, with deep-set, unreadable eyes.

“Name?” Trung asked.
“Lan,” she rasped, her voice hoarse as though unused for a long time.

Behind the one-way mirror, Trâm watched, her pulse quickening.

From the moment she was arrested, she showed no fear, only occasionally glancing toward the place she knew I was standing. Chung continued, “You were the one who hired Lợi and Thảo to kidnap the two children, right?” Lan gave a faint, bitter smile. “I didn’t hire them. I just asked them to return the two children.”

“Return them where?”

She remained silent for a long moment before speaking slowly: “Back to their biological mother.” The words froze the room. Behind the one-way glass, my heart pounded.

Trung leaned back in his chair. “Explain that more clearly.”

Lan sighed. “Eleven years ago, I worked for an intermediary organization that found newborns to sell to couples struggling with infertility. One night, I received a newborn boy. The documents said his mother had abandoned him at the welfare clinic. But I knew those papers were fake.”

“How did you know?” Trung asked.

“At that time, I saw the woman holding the baby, crying so much, begging the nurses to keep him, but someone paid to separate them.” My throat tightened, memories of the nurse’s story from years ago vividly returning.

Lan continued, “I’ve done many wrong things, but this case has always haunted me. A few years ago, I discovered that the boy was Phúc, who was living in the orphanage. I had planned to take him back, but before I could, the records had been changed, and he and the girl were moved elsewhere.”

Trung frowned. “You never thought of going to the police?”

Lan gave a bitter laugh. “Back then, I was still in the business. If I had opened my mouth, I wouldn’t have survived.”

I felt numb. All this time, “Red Eyes” wasn’t exactly an enemy, but the way she hired people to abduct children made everything so dangerous.

Trung asked, “So the biological mother you mentioned—who is she?”

Lan looked directly at the glass. “She’s here.” The person standing on the other side looked at me. I shivered. She is the mother of both children. Lan continued, “I knew from the original records before they were erased.”

After the interrogation, Trung brought me into a private room. He believed her partially, but the testimony still needed verification.

“We’ll review the records, including documents thought to be lost.” I nodded, but my mind was in turmoil. Part of me wanted to believe, part of me feared the truth might be different.

That evening, back home, I looked at Phúc and Na sleeping, their faces so close they seemed like real siblings. I recalled every small detail—the way Phúc protected his sister, the way Na clung to him—as if it were ingrained in their blood.

I whispered, If it’s true, then heaven has returned the children to their mother.

Three days later, the DNA results arrived. Trung called, “Châm, both children are your biological children.” I slumped into a chair, tears spilling uncontrollably. Years of searching, years of pain, and finally there was an answer.

But before I could rejoice, Trung added, “One more thing: the person who paid to separate you from your children eleven years ago was someone in your own family.”

I froze. Trung set the file on the table, his eyes heavy. The person behind it all was Mrs. Hạnh. My head snapped back as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me. Trung’s mother nodded slowly. “We found the bank statement from eleven years ago. The money transferred to the intermediary group matches the day the children’s records were changed. The account was in Mrs. Hạnh’s name.” I sat silently, my mind spinning.

Images of my mother appeared—stern, diligent, always claiming to love her children. No, it couldn’t be. Why would she do that? I asked in a hoarse voice.

Trung sighed. “I don’t know. But if you want answers, you have to face it yourself.”

That afternoon, I went to my mother’s house. Mrs. Hạnh was picking vegetables in the yard. When she saw me, she smiled, but it faded quickly when she noticed my expression.

“What’s the matter?”

I didn’t beat around the bush. “Mom, eleven years ago, why did you take my newborn children away?”

She froze, hands stopping mid-motion. “Who told you that?”

“I have proof.” I placed the file on the table. Both Phúc and Na are your biological children. You paid to separate them from me.”

Mrs. Hạnh closed her eyes and took a deep breath. After a moment, she whispered, “You were only eighteen, unmarried, and your father had just passed away. The relatives looked down on you, the neighbors gossiped. I was afraid you couldn’t care for your own children, afraid your future would be buried. So I chose to take everything from you. I thought sending them to wealthy people would be better. I never expected they would end up in the hands of traffickers.”

I laughed bitterly. “Do you know? For eleven years, I lived like a shadow, tracing every small clue to find my children.”

Mother and I were silent for a long time. The wind rustled through the areca palms, the distant dogs barked.

Finally, Mrs. Hạnh softly said, “I’m sorry. If I could go back, I wouldn’t do it.”

I stood, my voice cold. “You can’t go back, Mom. The only thing I can do now is keep the two children with me and never let anyone take them away again.” I turned and left the yard, leaving her sitting silently, hands over her face.

That night, I told Ngọc everything. Ngọc hugged my shoulder. “You found the truth. It hurts, but now you know who was behind it. The most important thing now is to protect Phúc and Na and start a new life.”

I nodded, though my gaze was distant. The pain hadn’t faded, and another decision had formed—I would leave the town and take the two children somewhere no one knew to start over.

Before I could, Trung called to say Lan wanted to see me one last time before court. I was silent for a few seconds, then agreed. In the visiting room, Lan looked at me for a long time. “You know everything now, but remember, forgiving your mother is for your own peace, not because she deserves it.” I didn’t answer, just stood up.

Her words echoed in my mind all the way home. That night, I slept with Phúc and Na. Outside, fireworks for the festival’s closing echoed. I knew that tomorrow everything would change.

The next morning, the town buzzed with the closing festival. Balloons soared into the sky, fireworks exploded, mingling with children’s laughter.

But for me, today wasn’t just the festival—it was the day I decided the fate of our little family. I packed our belongings neatly into two suitcases. Phúc and Na sat on the bed, looking at each other and then at me.

“Are we really leaving, Mom?” Na asked, worried.

I smiled, brushing her hair. “Yes, we’re going to a peaceful place. No one will bother us again.”

Phúc nodded softly, gripping his backpack strap tightly.

Before leaving, I stopped by my mother’s house. Mrs. Hạnh was sweeping the yard. Seeing the suitcases, she understood that I intended to leave for good. I spoke gently but firmly, “Don’t look for us.” She said something but only sighed. Before I turned away, she softly called out, “No matter what, I still hope you’re happy.”

Outside, Trung was waiting. He handed me an envelope containing all the legal papers to officially adopt Phúc and Na. From now on, no one can dispute it. I took it with tears in my eyes.

“Thank you for everything.”

Trung smiled. “Go. But remember, if you need anything, call me. We’ll always be behind you.” The car moved. Through the window, the town receded—the areca palms, the red-tiled roofs, the roads I had walked countless times over eleven years searching for my children.

Na leaned her head on my shoulder, dozing. Phúc looked out the window for a while, then turned to me. “Mom… do you… regret anything?”

I shook my head softly. “No. Everything my mother did was to give us this day.”

Phúc smiled, calling me “Mom” for the first time without hesitation.

The car arrived at a small seaside town. I rented a modest single-story house with a bright pink bougainvillea in the yard. Every morning, the sound of waves and the salty sea air filled every corner, replacing the noise and stress of our old life.

I opened a small café, selling pastries as well. Ngọc occasionally visited, bringing things for the kids.

Chung still called to check in, sometimes sending photos of cases he was working on. Phúc and Na quickly adapted to the new school. Phúc remained responsible, protecting his sister as before. Na smiled more, fearing strangers less.

One afternoon, as we cleared the table, someone delivered a letter. No sender was noted, only a few lines: Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting, it means lightening your heart.

I stood silently for a moment, then folded the letter and put it in a drawer. I didn’t know if I had truly forgiven, but I knew I had chosen to move forward.

The following year, on the spring festival day, I took Phúc and Na to the beach to fly kites. The sky was high and blue, the wind brisk. Phúc ran ahead, pulling the string; Na ran after, laughing loudly.

I stood watching, feeling something new—no longer just pain or loss, but peace and hope. I thought to myself: finally, my children and I are truly together.