In my second year of university, I gave up my dream. I dropped out and took on every job I could find: waiting tables at cafés, handing out flyers, tutoring at night… all to save money so my boyfriend—Hung—could continue his studies. He told me:
“You’re smart, but your family is poor, and tuition is expensive. I’ll study for the both of us, then later I’ll earn money for us both.”

I believed him. I called it sacrifice.

For five years, I worked myself to the bone. My salary was small, so I lived on instant noodles, sending all my earnings to him—for rent, tuition, living expenses. My friends said I was foolish, but watching him grow more successful each day, I thought: “I made the right choice.”

The day he said he was preparing to defend his PhD dissertation, I cried with joy. But that happiness was crushed when I heard the news… he was getting married. Not to me, but to Mai—the daughter of his mother’s best friend, from a wealthy, well-matched family.

I called him, my voice trembling:
—“Is it true, Hung?”
He was silent for a while, then said:
—“I’m sorry. My parents decided. I can’t go against them. You’re still young, you’ll find happiness.”

I froze. “Still young?” I had poured all my youth into supporting him, only to become a stranger at my own wedding

On the wedding day, I went. Not to make a scene, but to face the truth. People whispered: “Isn’t that the girl who stood by Hung for so many years?” I ignored them. I came with a small gift box, wrapped in plain white paper.

The wedding was grand, confetti filling the sky, the bride and groom raising their glasses in joy. They laughed brightly, while I smiled coldly. As the orchestra played, I walked forward and set the box before them.

—“My wedding gift,” I said clearly.

No one expected it. The bride’s hands trembled as she opened it, while Hung’s face turned ashen. Inside was a stack of receipts—bank transfers, tuition payments, month after month, year after year, all bearing the name of the recipient: Nguyen Van Hung. At the bottom was a worn piece of paper: “I promise, if you support me through school, I will marry you.”—written in Hung’s own handwriting, five years ago.

The hall fell silent. Only whispers rose like waves:
“Oh my God… she supported him through school all those years…”
“And he left her to marry someone else?”
“How despicable…”

The bride Mai clutched the paper, hands shaking, eyes red with tears. She turned to Hung:
—“Is this true?”

Hung stammered:
—“I… that was the past…”
I laughed bitterly:
—“The past? That ‘past’ is what made you a PhD today. And now, in the present, you deny it as if it never happened.”

The groom’s mother’s face darkened. She stood quickly:
—“Stop this! Don’t ruin the wedding!”

I turned to her, eyes dry:
—“I’m not ruining anything. I’m just returning the debt your family tried to bury. This is the only ‘gift’ I have: the truth.”

The bride burst into tears and ran out. Hung scrambled after her, abandoning the hundred guests frozen in their seats. The wedding collapsed like a play cut short mid-scene.

I walked away, head held high. Outside, heavy rain poured down, soaking my shoulders. But inside, I felt light. I had lost five years of youth, but at least, I no longer lost myself.

The story spread across social media overnight. People called me “the girl who supported her boyfriend through his PhD only to be betrayed.” Some pitied me, some blamed me, some admired me. As for me? I knew—I had closed a bitter chapter and opened a new door.

That wedding night, they trembled not with joy, but with the truth I laid before them. As for me, I trembled one last time—so that from then on, I could walk stronger