.

But unexpectedly, during a visit to his home, she accidentally encountered someone who held her secrets—and she was humiliatingly exposed.

Tùng sat on the cement steps, holding his worn-out phone, his thumb scrolling across the faded touchscreen. He smiled as he looked at the tiny green mustard sprouts pushing through the loose soil, a sense of satisfaction and peace spreading in his heart. This was his life—a life tied to the land, to the scent of fresh grass and tree sap, a life he had chosen and cherished every day. There might not be skyscrapers or dazzling city lights here, but this place gave him a peace no luxury could match.

A small “ting” from his phone sounded again. This time, it wasn’t a work message or greetings from friends, but a notification from social media. He already knew who it was without checking the sender’s name—just the glaring red notification icon was enough. For months now, that was the only thing that stirred a tinge of sadness in his otherwise calm soul.

Linh, his cousin, had just updated a new album. The first photo showed her standing on a luxury yacht, holding a glass of wine, the backdrop a pristine blue sea and smooth white sands. Her caption read: “Life is about going, about experiencing. Youth is short—don’t waste it staying in one place.” Alongside was a smiley face dripping with mockery, a hidden arrow aimed straight at his life as a farmer.

Tùng sighed. He wasn’t angry—just sad. Sad at the invisible distance between them, sad at how their values had grown irreconcilably different. He remembered when Linh was a carefree little girl, running after him in the fields catching butterflies and picking flowers. Now, distance and the glitz of a foreign life had changed her completely, turning her into someone obsessed with showing off and judging others by material things.

In the days that followed, Linh’s “check-in” photos appeared non-stop. Photos of her in glamorous gowns at fancy dinners, laughing beside a convertible, and tales of her “self-funded” extravagant trips. Each post carried a sly jab, a subtle comparison between her “elite” life and his “small” farming existence.

Tùng turned off his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He stood, scooped a handful of loose soil into his palm. The earthy scent of soil, organic fertilizer, and dry leaves blended—a rustic but vibrant fragrance. He felt peace. He knew Linh was chasing something uncertain, a validation from the virtual world she had built. But he was living a real life—one he could touch, breathe, and feel every moment of.

Then one day, his mother called: “Linh’s coming home, son. She said she wants to visit, to see you too.” Her voice was cheerful, but Tùng felt heavy. He knew this meeting wouldn’t be easy. He wasn’t afraid of Linh’s sarcasm—only that the huge gap between their worlds would widen the rift in their bond.

When Linh returned, the whole family came out to greet her. She stepped out of a modern taxi, her appearance far different from the casual photos. Designer dress, branded handbag, and heavy makeup made her seem older, more distant than her real age. She looked slightly uneasy standing on the dusty village road among lush green vegetable rows, as though forcing herself to maintain the “luxurious” image she had built.

That evening, the family gathered for dinner. Their mother cooked rustic dishes Linh used to love. But Linh only poked at them, soon pulling out her phone to take pictures. She zoomed in on the food, then carefully edited, adding sparkling effects as if dining in a high-class restaurant. Watching this, Tùng felt a quiet sorrow, as if she was desperately turning reality into a staged performance for others.

“Are you still farming here?” Linh suddenly asked, breaking the silence. Her tone was soft, but her eyes full of scrutiny. “I see you only post photos of vegetables. Isn’t that boring? Land can’t support you forever.”

Tùng looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m not bored. This is the life I chose. Vegetables feed me, the land sustains me—and sustains our whole family. My peace and joy don’t depend on how far I travel or what I eat. I find them here, in every seed I plant.”

Linh smirked, a mocking half-smile. “You’re outdated. These days everyone’s chasing new things, experiences. How can you understand the big world out there if you stay stuck here? I just toured Europe, went on a cruise, stayed in 5-star hotels—all self-funded, by the way.” She emphasized “self-funded,” flaunting it.

Tùng only smiled, saying nothing. He knew Linh lived in a fake world where worth was measured in trips and designer goods. He believed in real values—honest work, inner peace. He didn’t need to prove his life’s worth to her. Time itself would answer.

…

The next morning, while Tùng was tending the garden, a friend visited—Hùng, a young man who owned a small travel company offering nature and rural tours. They chatted warmly. Just then, Linh stepped outside. Seeing Hùng, she froze, shocked.

“Anh… Anh Hùng… You’re the one who led the Europe tour for me last week… right?” she stammered, trembling.

Silence fell. Hùng nodded, confused. “Yes, you were my client. You joined our budget Europe tour—the one for students and low-income travelers.”

“Budget…?” Linh gasped, her face pale. Tears welled up. All her boasts, all her glamorous photos, shattered like soap bubbles.

She fled inside. Later, Hùng explained to Tùng: Linh had joined a cheap tour but pretended online it was luxury—cruise ships, 5-star hotels. In truth, they stayed in simple inns.

That night, Linh locked herself in her room. Eventually, she broke down, confessing to Tùng through tears: she was exhausted living in a world of bragging and comparison. She envied his peace, his authenticity. She admitted her whole “luxury life” was a mask to cover loneliness and insecurity.

Tùng hugged her gently. “You don’t have to live like that anymore. Happiness isn’t in luxury—it’s in peace, in love, in honesty. That’s something money can’t buy.”

From then on, Linh changed. She stopped mocking farming, began helping Tùng in the garden, and found joy in planting, in real labor. With Hùng’s encouragement, she used her skills to build a media channel for their Agri-Tourism Experience Project. This time, she told authentic stories—of nature’s beauty, of honest work, of peace of mind. Surprisingly, people loved it more than her old “glamorous” posts.

Their agri-tourism project thrived. Linh found a meaningful path where she could live truthfully, without pretending. Happiness came not from luxury trips, but from the quiet authenticity of rural life.

One sunny afternoon, sitting beside Tùng on the steps, watching golden rice fields sway, Linh whispered: “I used to think your life was boring. But now I see—true happiness isn’t in glitter. It’s in peace of the soul.”

Tùng smiled, seeing her eyes now free of envy, filled only with peace and joy. He knew Linh had found her own path—and that their sibling bond was healed, strengthened by a shared appreciation for life’s true values.