I have been cooking free rice for the elderly in the village for three years. Every day there is a dinner, there is meat and vegetables, and if there are children left behind, I will add an extra meal. In the past three years, I have never taken a single penny from them.

For three years, the woman regularly lit a warm fire in the middle of the quiet village, cooking each afternoon meal for the lonely old men. No one paid her a penny, and no one asked her to do so. She just laughed and said, “There is rice, there are old people laughing, that’s enough.” But one day, it all came to an end. And people call her a “benevolent profiter”…

Truc Son Village, Nghe An – a hot summer afternoon

It was June, the sun was like pouring fire. In a small fourth-grade house next to a red dirt alley, Ms. Ha – a woman in her thirties, with a slender figure and neat bun hair at the back of her neck – was crouching down by a pot of boiling pork pork.

Sweat dripped from her forehead down the old worn shirt on her shoulders, but her eyes still shone with joy. Today, she stewed pork spring rolls with mung beans – a favorite dish of Mr. Tam in Ha village, who is 83 years old and lives alone in a shabby house.

Ms. Ha started cooking free rice for the elderly in the village three years ago, after taking a break from working as a worker in the South, returning to her hometown because her mother died suddenly. In the saddest days, she discovered that there were too many lonely old people in the village – their children and grandchildren went on business far away, not visiting for a whole month. Some people are sick, some are hungry, some people just need a warm meal to cry.

She thought: “I still have the strength, why can’t I help them?”

From that day, she rebuilt her mother’s old kitchen, went to beg for firewood, collected rice, bought some more vegetables and meat from her savings. Gradually, Ms. Ha learned how to record videos of the cooking process and post them on social networks. Not to show off, but to share their stories – and unexpectedly, her video went viral.

Viewers sympathize and support her with small donations. Some people sent money, some sent rice, some just messaged “Come on, Ms. Ha”.

It was those things that helped her maintain the rice kitchen for three years. One meal a day, regularly at 5 pm. No one forces it, no one forces it. She called it “Love Kitchen”.

But then something unexpected happened.

That afternoon, when Ms. Ha was putting each portion of rice into the box, there was a loud noise outside the gate. A group of strangers, along with several people in the village, led by Mr. Phuc, the newly inaugurated village chief, walked straight into the yard.

Ms. Ha was surprised, and before he had time to greet him, Mr. Phuc pointed to the pot of pork rolls:

– What are you cooking this rice for?

– Yes, to distribute to the old people in the village as usual…

– So did you know that filming videos of the old people in the village is infringing on other people’s images?

Ms. Ha was confused:

–Yes… I have consulted the old men first, whoever agrees will shoot it. I also don’t slander or make up stories, I just want to spread the positive…

Mr. Phuc smirked, grunted:

– Spreading positivity? Or take advantage of the misery of the elderly to catch views and make money?

The woman standing next to him continued:

– For three years, you have been livestreaming, recording videos, receiving donations from social networks, that amount is not small! You eat alone, what kind of money do you get?

Ms. Ha was stunned. Then she replied softly:

–But… I used all that money to buy food, gas, cooking utensils, and maintain this kitchen. I don’t keep any coins…

But the other people didn’t listen. One of the group snatched the phone that was placed on the rack and threw it to the ground. Then they rushed in:

“Shut up! Cooking rice is prohibited from today! If you want to cook, you have to divide the money for the whole village! Otherwise, put it all away!

The sound of pots and pans colliding with the gods. The pot of pork spring rolls – her enthusiasm for three hours – was overturned, spilling over the ground. Ms. Ha panicked and rushed over, but it was too late. The hot water burned her hands, but she didn’t squeal, just looked at the pieces floating under the brick floor.

Mrs. Muoi – who often comes the earliest to receive rice – stands outside the fence, silently witnessing.

“You guys… What are you guys doing? He was kind enough to cook for us… You guys destroyed this rice cooker, who will take care of us?

Mr. Phuc rolled his eyes:

“Old man, how kind! He took his picture and put it on the Internet to make money. Will he be divided? Did anyone send money back to him? This is called “coloring”, which is profiting from that kindness!

Mrs. Muoi shed tears.

Ms. Ha did not say anything more. She hugged her burned hands, bent down to pick up the ladles and patches left on the ground. No one helps, no one stops them. The people who used to receive rice turned away silently. Someone avoided her gaze.

That night, for the first time in three years, the Love Kitchen was not red.

Ms. Ha sat alone on the doorstep, the yellow light shining on her tired face. No crying. No resentment. It’s just… sad to the bottom of my heart.

She thought: “It’s been three years, maybe it’s time to take a break…”

But she didn’t know that, behind the night, there was a child secretly standing by the window looking at her. That is Be Na – the grandson of Mr. Tam, orphaned by his mother, his father left, living with him in a torn house.

And she will be the one who will rekindle the fire that seems to have been extinguished…

The next morning, Truc Son village, as usual, was still peaceful. But something was missing…

There is no longer the aroma of afternoon rice rising from Ms. Ha’s kitchen.

There was no longer the sound of Mr. Tam sitting with his throat coughing and waiting for the spring rolls.

There is no longer the image of Ms. Ha with a faded apron, smiling with a familiar smile when handing over a hot lunch box to each person.

People think that a day without a kitchen is just like any other day. But on the second, third, and then whole week, that emptiness is like a hole that cannot be filled.

Mrs. Muoi – an old man who often tells stories during the anti-French era – sat and sighed:
“Every afternoon there is no lunch box of Ha’s children… the stomach is not hungry, but the heart keeps feeling cold…

Mr. Tam was getting weaker and weaker, losing his appetite, and baby Na refused to go out from that day. In her mind was the image of the pot being knocked over, Ms. Ha’s red eyes, and the cold gazes of the adults that day.

One Saturday afternoon, baby Na carried a tattered briefcase and ran to Ms. Ha’s house.

Ms. Ha was growing vegetables in the back of the garden, her hands wrapped in bandages because the burn had not yet healed. Baby Na stood outside the fence and called softly:

– Miss Ha…

She looked up and smiled slightly:

“That’s it, son? Why don’t you stay at home with him?

Na pursed her lips, her eyes were red:

“I remember the rice you cooked. Mr. Tam also remembered. Aunt… Can you cook it again?

Ms. Ha paused, bowed her head. After a long time, she replied:

– You cook again… What if people come to smash it again?

“I won’t let them beat me! I recorded the video, recorded it all, and posted it online! People will defend her!

Ms. Ha shook her head and smiled sadly:

– People defend or curse, you’ve all experienced it. But what she fears the most is… When we sincerely help people, we are suspected, considered “colorful”, “greedy for money”. You’re tired, Na…

Baby Na was silent. Then he pulled out a crumpled envelope from his briefcase, and put it in her hand:

– I have been collecting bottle ticks for a few months, 126 thousand. She took it and cooked it again for us. I don’t need portions, as long as Mr. Tam has rice to eat.

Ms. Ha choked up, hugging her tightly in her arms.

That night, the first video after nearly two weeks of silence reappeared on Ms. Ha’s channel.

He didn’t spin any meals. There was no scene of a fire, nor was there an emotional old man. It’s just a picture of her sitting under a milkweed tree, holding a small paper envelope in her hand, reading baby Na’s scribbled letter:

“I hope everyone will help Ms. Ha cook rice for the grandparents. Because we’re small, we don’t know how to cook, but you know, and you love us…”

The video ends with Ms. Ha’s words:

– I don’t ask for money. I just want everyone to understand: kindness doesn’t always need to be understood correctly, as long as it doesn’t need to be trampled on.

I thought that video would be ignored eventually. But no.

It spreads dizzyingly. Comments rush in:

“You are the light in this poor countryside!”
“Don’t give up, Ms. Ha. The whole country supports her.”
“I sent a little money to buy rice. Come on!”

A large charity group in Hanoi – the Golden Heart Association – posted an article in support of Ms. Ha. They decided to support her to rebuild the Love Kitchen, but this time they will legalize the operation through the “Community Kitchen” model. They will work with local authorities, be financially transparent, protect the image of the person being helped, and especially:

Ms. Ha will still be the main chef.

When the volunteer group returned to Truc Son village, the whole village pulled out to see. At that time, Mr. Phuc – the village chief – was confused and speechless. A member of the association said softly:

– We don’t defend anyone, we only defend what is right. A strong community is not thanks to anyone who is rich, but because of people who know how to love.

But this time, Ms. Ha is not the only one cooking. There was more Mrs. Muoi wrapping sticky rice, baby Na washing vegetables, Uncle Hoa – neighbor – carrying rice, and even Mr. Phuc asked to contribute a working day every week to “make amends”.

A spending table is publicly posted in front of the kitchen door. Each portion of rice has the name of the supporter and a message.

And for the first time, Ms. Ha smiled really – not stiff, not sad. She understands: kindness in the face of misunderstanding is painful, but if you keep your faith, it will rekindle – like a fire that never goes out.