[NEXT – THE CONCLUSION OF A BLOODLESS MOTHER]

After that meeting, I visited Aunt Cham more often. At first, I only brought gifts from my hometown, sometimes a bag of rice, a carton of milk, or a bunch of fresh vegetables from the morning market. But later on, I no longer came out of pity— but out of nostalgia.

I remember the bowl of fragrant onion porridge that my aunt used to blow on to cool it for me when I was little. I remember the sound of my aunt’s footsteps waiting outside the school gate. I also remember my aunt’s gentle gaze when I accidentally broke a precious porcelain bowl and she never blamed me.

One day, when I arrived, my aunt was sitting under a small tree in the yard, mending an old sweater. I put the fruit basket on the table and hesitantly said:

“Auntie… I want to burn incense for dad, but I want to do it at your house. I think… dad’s soul must be here too.”

She didn’t say anything. She just looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. After a while, she stood up, went into the house, got a small ceramic incense burner, wiped it clean, and gave it to me.

Then the most unexpected thing happened.

One day, my eldest brother and second brother suddenly came to visit me. They had heavy faces and were silent the whole time. Finally, my eldest brother spoke up:

“We already know that dad bought a house in aunt’s name… An acquaintance in the land office told us.”

I held my breath. I had been dreading this moment ever since I saw my aunt again.

“At first, we were angry,” the second brother interjected, “we felt betrayed.”

The elder brother nodded.

“But then we remembered… who cooked for us when our mother passed away? Who went to the parent-teacher meetings when our father was busy? Who sewed every shirt, cooked every meal, and never took a penny from anyone?”

The room went silent.

“We want to see you. Not to make demands, but to apologize.”

A few days later, the three of us went to Aunt Cham’s house together. She looked at us with surprise and a bit of worry.

“Auntie…” — I began, but the eldest brother raised his hand first, hesitantly saying:

“We didn’t come because of the house. But because… all those years we were so stupid, letting a mother silently endure all the pain like you.”

Aunt Cham burst into tears.

Not a sob, but a cry that broke out after years of suppression. Me, my eldest brother, and my second brother—also couldn’t hold back our tears.

“Dad was right,” I said. “He didn’t give her the property… but he gave her something bigger— absolute trust .”

CONCLUSION:

Since that day, we considered my aunt’s house as a place to worship my father.

We took turns visiting my aunt, fixing the roof when it rained heavily, taking her for regular checkups, or simply sitting together under the shade of a tree, recalling memories that we thought had been forgotten.

That Tet, for the first time in many years, the whole family sat down to eat together.

Aunt Cham sat in the middle, her hands trembling as she picked up a piece of meat for her eldest brother and poured a cup of tea for her second brother. She didn’t say much, just smiled— the smile of a mother finally recognized.

And I realized:

It is not blood that makes a mother.
It is not words that make a mother.
It is patience, sacrifice and tolerance that make a mother.

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