I choked back tears:
“He is my own flesh and blood, but he turned his back on his parents. What more can I hope for, my dear?”

The Seven-Billion House and the Birthday Night

The provincial hospital was always crowded. In the emergency room, my husband, Mr. Lam, lay motionless, his breathing heavy. The doctor said he needed urgent surgery, with a deposit of at least 20 million VND.

I—Mrs. Hoa, his wife of more than thirty years—slumped into a chair, my calloused hands trembling. There was nothing valuable left at home; our savings had long been spent on medicine. I dialed our son—Phong—hoping he could help.

“Phong, your father’s in critical condition. I need 20 million for the hospital fee, please help me!” I pleaded.

The line went quiet for a moment before Phong’s voice came:
“Mom… I’m busy. Tonight, we’re hosting a birthday party for my mother-in-law. Can we talk tomorrow?”

I froze.
“Tomorrow will be too late, son! Your father… he can’t wait that long.”

Phong hesitated:
“But Mom, my mother-in-law already booked the hotel banquet. Years ago, she gave us a seven-billion house. I can’t disrespect her…”

The phone slipped from my hand. One question echoed in my mind:
Was seven billion worth more than his own father’s life?

That afternoon, I rushed from door to door, begging relatives and friends. Some said they were strapped, others promised another time. The entire day passed, and not a single coin was raised.

Meanwhile, at a grand hotel downtown, my son and his wife were busy celebrating his mother-in-law’s birthday. The lights glittered, guests laughed, and their smiles were radiant.

Hearing the news, my heart twisted. My husband was fighting for his life in a hospital bed, while our son lifted a glass to toast someone else.

That night, after exhausting every option, I scraped together only a few million—far from enough. Looking at Lam gasping for air, tears streamed down my face.

“My dear, maybe we should sell the land our parents left us…” I whispered. But then I thought: that land was for the ancestors’ altar, and even selling it wouldn’t be quick enough.

In despair, I opened the cupboard and took out the land title of our only house in town—the only property in both our names. My heart was torn apart. That house was meant for Phong, an inheritance for his future. But now I asked myself: does he still deserve it?

I sat through the night, and at last I decided: tomorrow, I would make a will canceling Phong’s inheritance. The house would go to my granddaughter—Phong’s little daughter—so she would have a place to rely on one day, not the unfilial child who abandoned us.

The next morning, when Phong and his wife came to visit, I greeted them with a cold stare.

“How is Dad, Mom?” he asked awkwardly.

I turned away, replying curtly:
“Still breathing—that’s lucky enough.”

My daughter-in-law, Thu, forced a smile:
“Yesterday we were too busy, we couldn’t come. But my mother’s birthday was very important. Please understand.”

Clutching the land title tightly, I choked out:
“Important enough to outweigh your father’s life? Yesterday I begged for 20 million, and you gave nothing. Yet you wasted hundreds of millions on a hotel banquet without a second thought…”

Phong lowered his head in silence.

I looked him straight in the eye, my voice firm:
“I’ve decided. This house will never belong to you. It will go to my granddaughter. I refuse to let my parents’ legacy fall into the hands of someone who turned his back on his family.”

The room fell silent. Thu was stunned. Phong’s lips trembled, his eyes brimming with tears, but no words came.

After days of struggle, with the help of kind neighbors, Lam finally underwent surgery. He survived, though much weakened.

I told him about the will. He stayed quiet for a long time, then sighed:
“You did what you had to. But still, he is our son. Don’t cut him off completely. Spare a thought for our granddaughter.”

I broke down:
“He is our blood, but he abandoned his parents. What else can I hope for?”

Lam said nothing, but his weary eyes carried a deep sorrow.

Gradually, Phong realized the price of his wrong choice. Friends mocked him, neighbors gossiped:
“An unfilial son—while his father lay dying, he threw a lavish party.”
The rumor spread everywhere, shaming him and his wife.

One night, Phong quietly came to the hospital, kneeling by Lam’s bedside:
“Dad, I’m sorry. I was wrong. I let money blind me. I was afraid of my wife’s reproach, afraid of losing the house her mother gave us… I was weak.”

Lam clasped his son’s hand gently:
“Better late than never. The fact that you understand is enough. But remember this—family bonds can never be measured by money.”

Phong broke down in tears. For the first time in years, I saw him cry.

A month later, Lam and I officially signed the will leaving the house to our granddaughter. When the papers were done, I turned to Phong:
“I don’t hate you, son. But I want you to understand: property can be lost, but the love of your parents should never be betrayed. Live well, take care of your wife and child. If you change for the better, I will smile from the afterlife.”

Phong bowed his head, tears streaming. His wife Thu sobbed too, clutching their little girl.

The story spread across our neighborhood. Some sympathized, others criticized. But everyone agreed on one thing: no amount of money can ever replace filial piety.

Lam slowly recovered, and I cared for him daily. Though I canceled Phong’s inheritance, I still welcomed him back, for Lam was right: “Blood is thicker than water.” But the incident left a scar, a reminder that no extravagant birthday party could ever replace the tears of parents in their hour of need.

And the seven-billion house—once a symbol of gratitude and dependence—became a testament to this truth: only genuine family love can hold a family together, while material wealth will one day vanish like foam upon the sea.