When I went to my girlfriend’s house to meet her parents, I saw her mother covering her face from beginning to end, until she took off her mask when eating. My legs went weak when I realized it was… I met my girlfriend through a project together. She was gentle, intelligent, and her family was well-off. After more than half a year of getting to know each other, our feelings were deep, and she took the initiative to say: “Come to my house this weekend to meet my parents. My mother is very difficult, but as long as you are sincere, everything will be fine.” I nervously prepared. I bought gifts, chose neat shirts, and my heart was pounding. When I got home, as soon as I entered the living room, I saw a woman sitting on the sofa, looking dignified but wearing a mask from head to toe. My girlfriend quickly introduced: “That’s my mother, but she’s a bit shy so she’s not used to meeting strangers.” I bowed politely, and she just nodded slightly. Throughout the conversation, I saw the woman’s eyes staring straight at me through her mask. There was something… familiar that made me shiver. The meal was served. I tried to be cheerful, poured water, and picked up food to invite her. At that moment, she gently pulled down her mask to eat. In just a split second, the whole world seemed to collapse before my eyes. That face, the wrinkles, the eyes, the small scar at the corner of her lips… everything was imprinted in my memory for years. I trembled, my chopsticks fell on the table. My legs went limp, I knelt down right in front of her, stammering: – “Mom… Oh my God… Why is it Mom…?!” The atmosphere at the table was dead silent. My girlfriend opened her mouth, looking at the two of them in bewilderment. The woman also trembled, her eyes red: – “I… can’t… this…” I was stunned, sweating like a shower. I have gone through life, loved deeply, thought I could touch her happily, but… it turns out that woman is my biological mother who has been missing for more than 20 years. As for my girlfriend…
The sound of dropped chopsticks still rolling on the table, hitting the porcelain bowl with dry clattering sounds. My girlfriend was stunned, her eyes wide open, stammering:

— Mom… with… you… are…?

The woman slowly put the bowl down. Her hand was shaking so much that the spoon’s mouth hit the bowl’s mouth with a soft “ting”. She took off her mask, took a deep breath:

— Mom’s real name is Thu Ha… But now everyone calls me Mrs. Van. Twenty-one years ago, I had to leave… because of a bad marriage. I was forbidden to bring my child with me, my papers were torn up, they threatened me… I came back to find you many times, but the old family moved, the neighbors said you followed your paternal family to the interior. Mom… I lost track of you.

I leaned against the chair, cold sweat trickling down the back of my neck.

— What about her? — I looked at my girlfriend, my voice hoarse.

She looked up, tears welling up in her eyes:

— She is the child of her second husband. My mother married him when he was a widower, and she brought a tiny baby with her. My mother raised her since she was a baby… but she was not her blood. She hid the past because she was afraid of tearing both of us away from a peaceful life.

My girlfriend—Mai—sat there, her lips moving:

— That means… I am not related to you by blood?

— Uh… no. — she nodded, her eyes not leaving me. — But this cannot be just a word. Tomorrow we will go for a test, so that my child… so that my child can rest assured.

That night, I almost stayed up all night. I pulled out a small wooden box from the bottom of the cupboard, where I always kept an old photo: a 5-year-old boy standing next to a young woman with a faint mole at the corner of her lips. The photo was faded. Suddenly, all the flavors of memories flooded back: the sound of a lullaby in the rain, the way someone bent down to tie my shoelaces, and a broken morning when an adult said, “Mom went far away to work.”

The next morning, we went to the hospital. A blood sample was taken. The nurse said the results would come back in three days. Three days were as long as three rainy seasons.

The second day, Mrs. Van asked me to meet her at the coffee shop at the end of the alley. She brought a bag of old documents: a copy of my birth certificate, a photo taken in front of the kindergarten gate, and a crumpled letter. She pushed the letter toward me:

— I wrote this 15 years ago, without an address to send it to.

The paper had turned yellow. I opened it, the handwriting was scribbled: “If you read it in the future, believe that I have come back many times. I stood in front of the gate, but I was afraid that my family would chase me away, afraid that I would hurt you more. I chose to… wait.”

I clutched the edge of the paper, my throat choking. Mai sat across from me, squeezing my hand:

— You can be angry, you can run away. I won’t make you decide right now.

I nodded slightly.

The day we received the results, the three of us sat in the consultation room. The doctor opened the envelope, his voice even:

— Probability of mother-child relationship: 99.99%. As for the relationship between the two young people: the records show that Ms. Mai is not related by blood to Ms. Van, she is the illegitimate child of her previous husband. That is, the two of you are not related by blood.

A feeling of lightness and heaviness simultaneously swept over me. Light because the moral danger was gone. Heavy because between me and the woman in front of me was an ocean of time.

Walking out of the hospital, Ms. Van stood under the shade of a tree, speaking as if begging:

— If you give me a chance… there is no need to call me “mother” yet. Just call me… Ms. Ha is fine. Let’s get used to it, little by little.

I looked at her for a long time. On the corner of her lips, the small scar from years ago was still there. I nodded slightly:

— Yes… Ms. Ha.

Mai breathed out very softly.

In the days that followed, we put the wedding on hold. Between Mai and me was a waiting period: waiting for our hearts to get used to the truth, waiting for both families to calm down, waiting for me to face my father.

I went to my father’s house. He was sitting on the steps, his hair already more than half gray. When he heard me mention the name “Thu Ha”, his eyes darkened, then suddenly flashed a light that I couldn’t read—anger, shame, or relief. He slowly said:

— Dad… was wrong. That year, I thought it was right to keep you. I was afraid of the neighbors gossiping, afraid of losing face, afraid of everything… but not afraid of losing you. If you want… I will go with you, meet her, say sorry.

I was silent. For the first time, I saw my father shrink in my eyes.

That night, Mai texted: “Mom—ah, Ms. Ha—is making the sour fish soup you said I liked. If it’s okay with you… come over for dinner tomorrow. Let’s try again from the dining table.”

I stared at the screen for a long time. Then replied: “Okay.”

That meal, no mask. Only the smell of smoke, the smell of fried onions, the sound of the pot lid clacking. Ms. Ha cleaned the dishes, carefully as if she was putting each piece into the empty space. I ate a spoonful, the sweet and sour taste was strangely balanced. My throat was burning. Mai quietly pushed a tissue towards me.

After the meal, Ms. Ha timidly asked:

— Are you… ah… willing to go with me to the cemetery on Sunday? I want to take you to see your grandparents, to tell them that… I have found you again.

I looked at the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and suddenly I was seven years old, holding the hand of an adult crossing the street. I nodded.

The news spread quickly in the house. Some of my family were happy, some were skeptical. Friends heard the story, some were curious, some advised me “just get married, it doesn’t matter”. Only me, Mai, and Ms. Ha understood that no one could escape the shadow of truth. So we slowed down:

Mai and I dated like beginners, not drunk on the wedding table, not “forcing” our hearts to get to know each other right away.

I spent an evening/week sitting with Ms. Ha: listening to her talk about the years she worked for hire, about the time she almost chased after a kid with dimples like me, about the day she accepted Mai into her arms as a gift to make up for it.

On the weekend, my father went to Ms. Ha’s house, sat for a long time, then bowed his head. No one said much, but the atmosphere changed. Something heavy was lifted.

Three months later, I took Ms. Ha to the notary office to do the legal procedure of registering the mother-child relationship, based on the test results. When she signed, her hands were shaking. Before the ink had dried, she turned around and whispered:

— Can I… call you “mom” once? Not today. When you feel like it’s enough.

I swallowed down the hot lump in my chest. Before I could answer, Mai held my hand, warm and firm:

— No need to rush. The house can be rebuilt piece by piece.

That night, I turned on my phone and typed a text message to her: “Mom, I’ll come over early tomorrow to help cook.” I hesitated for 5 seconds, then pressed “Send”. The “seen” mark appeared, then a bright red heart.

We weren’t in a hurry to get married. But our schedule was still the same: dinner for three on Wednesday; taking turns taking Mom to the market on Sunday; once a month, we went home to burn incense for our grandparents. My love for Mai and I stopped running, and learned to walk: to let our hearts hear each other’s shoes on the real road.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I woke up because of an old dream: the door slammed, the sound of footsteps leaving. I turned around and saw Mai sleeping, her hair falling to her pillow. In the living room, my mother—yes, my mother—had a bottle of warm water ready, a small piece of paper hastily written: “It’s windy at night, remember to close the window.”

I smiled in the dark. The mask on the first day only covered my face; it couldn’t cover my blood vessels. And it couldn’t cover my ability to forgive when the adults came back and stood in their rightful place.

The road ahead was still challenging—for me, for Mai, for my mother. But this time, we knew who we were in this story. And knew that there were reunions that didn’t need fireworks: just a hot meal, a barely audible “Mom,” and the world lit up in a corner.