I Had an Accident, Had to Be Casted and Bedridden. My In-laws Went on a Vacation and Left Me Behind. When They Came Back…

That day, the evening sun cast its golden rays across the narrow alley, painting the old moss-covered walls with patches of yellow. The sound of suitcase wheels clattering echoed from the end of the alley. My mother-in-law, husband, and sister-in-law were cheerfully dragging their luggage after ten days of vacation by the sea.

In their hands were several souvenir bags and dried seafood still giving off a salty scent. They chatted excitedly about their long trip. No one noticed that the scene in front of our gate had changed. The familiar iron gate was now slightly ajar, and the sound of children’s laughter echoed from inside. A strange woman in a floral dress stepped out, holding a one-year-old child in her arms. She seemed a little surprised to see the three of them standing there and casually asked:

“Excuse me, may I ask who you’re looking for?”

The three of them stood frozen. My mother-in-law frowned and said, “This… this is my house. Who are you?”

The woman smiled politely but firmly replied, “This house belongs to my family. We just bought it last week, and the notarized contract is complete. If you’ve come to the wrong place, I apologize, but I’m busy taking care of my child.” With that, she gently closed the gate, leaving just a small gap.

From the balcony of a nearby house, I could clearly see the scene: my husband was staring blankly, my sister-in-law turned to my mother, her voice panicked.

“Mom, is this a mistake?”

I heard my mother-in-law mumble, “No, it can’t be… it can’t be…”

But it was the truth. The house they had left just ten days ago, abandoning me to lie bedridden with a cast, now belonged to someone else.

Onlookers might wonder how a woman could sell her own house when her husband and his family were away. But for me, it wasn’t an impulsive decision. It was the result of hundreds of days of being disrespected, thousands of times swallowing my tears, and the one time I finally realized that if I didn’t protect myself, no one else would do it for me.

Two years ago, when I left my hometown to live in the city, I never imagined that life as a daughter-in-law would be such a narrow and cold maze.

My parents ran a small business in the coastal area, and after a lifetime of hard work, they had only saved enough to repair our old house. But when I announced that I would marry Tuan, a man from the city, they sold the plot of land by the sea, added a bank loan, and bought me a small house on the outskirts so that their daughter would have a proper place to live when she married.

I still remember the day I signed the documents at the notary office. My father said the house would be in their name, no matter whether I was happy or not—it would always be a place for me to rely on.

At that time, I laughed and thought my parents were overthinking things; whatever belongs to the couple is shared. I naively believed that when two people decide to be together, home is something both should cherish and protect, not a battlefield of claims. My in-laws were different; they didn’t contribute to any shared property except for a few gold bars and an old motorcycle as a dowry.

I still valued those, never comparing or complaining. On our wedding day, I promised myself that I would treat both families equally. But only a few months later, the first cracks began to appear. My mother-in-law, who had always been in control of everything at home, frequently said, “It has to be like this, that’s the right way.” And she often added, “Back in our time, things were much harder.”

Every task I did—whether cooking, cleaning, or shopping—was scrutinized. If I was busy working extra hours and couldn’t prepare dinner on time, she would make indirect remarks. “Daughters-in-law nowadays are so lucky. They hardly ever have to lift a finger around the house.”

Tuan, my husband, had grown up with his mother taking care of every meal and every need. He rarely argued with her or contradicted her, and he never took my side during conflicts.

On some nights, I was exhausted and just wanted to lie down, but I would hear the sound of my mother-in-law’s slippers clacking in the hallway. “The yard hasn’t been swept, the kitchen hasn’t been wiped, the dishes haven’t been washed,” she’d say, and I would grit my teeth, not wanting to argue. I’d think of the effort my parents had put into buying this house, and I’d bear with it.

But enduring for too long became a dangerous habit. People begin to think that you were born to carry burdens, not to be cared for. The breaking point came one rainy afternoon. I was coming home from a part-time job, the road was slippery, and my motorbike skidded and fell. The impact caused a tear in my left knee, and blood soaked through my pants.

Some passersby took me to the nearest medical station, but the doctor said I needed to be transferred to a larger hospital. The X-ray showed a fractured patella, and I had to be casted, with restricted movement for at least a month.

Lying in my hospital bed, I called Tuan. The noise on the other end of the line sounded like he was at a bar. He simply said, “Okay, you rest, I’m busy.” No one from my in-laws came to visit me at the hospital. Two days later, I had to hire a motorbike taxi to get back home.

As soon as I stepped inside, my mother-in-law glanced at me and said, “Who’s going to cook and clean now? This isn’t a place to recover.” Those words still feel like a sharp knife cutting through me. That night, I lay in bed, my leg aching, my body completely drained. Outside, the sound of the TV blared, and no one asked if I had eaten or how I was doing. I realized that in this house, whether I was present or not didn’t matter. The work still got done.

I had planned to continue my story, but when I saw them today, frozen in front of the gate, told by a stranger that this house now belonged to someone else, all those memories rushed back like a reverse film reel: every careless word, every look of disdain, every lonely meal. All of it pushed me to the point where I decided to sever ties.

But they won’t begin to understand this until today. I still remember clearly. Just a few days after I returned home from being casted, still not fully recovered, my in-laws began excitedly discussing a long beach trip. That afternoon, I was trying to manage in the kitchen, reheating some porridge from lunch when I heard laughter from the living room. My mother-in-law’s cheerful voice rang out, “It’s been so long since we’ve gone anywhere; now that Tuấn has received a big bonus, we should take advantage of this chance to relax.”

Tuấn laughed and replied, “This month, the company is giving double salary. I think we should go for about 10 days, to relax and change the atmosphere.”

My sister-in-law chimed in, “Let’s go to the beach! I want to take some nice photos for social media.”

Hearing that made my stomach churn. It felt like I was in a parallel universe. On one side, laughter and joy filled the air, while on the other, I was still struggling to stand on my injured leg, sweating from the effort. I stepped out, trying to keep my voice calm. “Why don’t we wait a few days until I’m better, and then we can all go together?”

**My mother-in-law immediately furrowed her brow. “It’s just a small injury, a few days of rest and you’ll be fine. Staying home to recover is good.” I swallowed and explained, “I still have a slight fever and occasionally feel dizzy. It would be reassuring if someone stayed with me.” Tuan looked up at me, his voice dry, “Don’t exaggerate. People still work on construction sites when they’re sick, you should stay home and rest, we’ll go and enjoy ourselves.” My sister-in-law jokingly added, “You stay home and watch the house, saves us money on hiring a sitter.”

As soon as she finished speaking, all three of them burst into laughter. The sound of their laughter fell like a heavy weight on my chest, cold and suffocating. I looked at their bright faces, eager for their vacation, and a bitter, unfamiliar feeling rose within me.

In this house, I was nothing more than an object—used when needed, discarded when not. That night, I heard the constant clattering of suitcases and zippers. I lay in my room, listening to my mother-in-law instructing my sister-in-law, “Don’t forget the sunscreen, you don’t want to get tanned.” Tuan told his mother, “I’ve already booked the room, the beach this year is beautiful. No one asked how I’ll manage here at home, not a word of care for me.”

The next morning, before I could even sit up, the door swung open, sunlight flooded the room, and my mother-in-law’s voice followed. “We’re leaving. Close the door carefully and take care of things at home. Tuấn was standing next to her, carrying a suitcase, adding one last command: “Rest and don’t call to bother us.” I simply replied, “Okay, be careful.”

The door slammed shut, and the sound of their suitcases faded, disappearing down the street corner. The house returned to its silence, so quiet I could hear the ticking of the clock. I looked around; the room felt larger, but emptier than ever. That afternoon, I tried to reheat some leftover rice from the night before. Just standing for a few minutes made me sweat, and my leg ached so much that I had to hold onto the table to stay upright.

I remembered that we had run out of milk and bandages for my wound, so I called the neighbor. “Hi, could you help me buy some milk and bandages? I can’t go out.” She sounded surprised. “Isn’t anyone at your in-laws’ house?” I forced a smile, “They’re all away on a trip.” There was a brief silence on the other end before she replied, “Okay, I’ll get them for you.”

That afternoon, I lay in bed, my leg wrapped in a white bandage, holding a warm bottle of milk. My phone rang constantly. My in-laws’ family group chat was flooded with photos of them at the beach—golden sun, white sand, seafood piled high. My mother-in-law posted, “We’re having so much fun, vacations really are different!” My sister-in-law commented, “We’re eating, drinking, and having fun, forgetting all the tiredness.”

As I stared at the screen, it felt like I had never existed in their world. Not a single message asking if I was okay, not a call to check on me. That night, my fever returned. I wiped my face with a damp towel and took another fever-reducing pill. The house felt so large but so empty, and the sound of the wind outside the window was too clear. I thought, if I fainted right now, it would probably take the neighbors to notice.

That thought was terrifying. It made me realize that blood relations or family titles mean nothing without love and care. That night, I tossed and turned, both from the pain and from a cold emptiness in my heart. Perhaps this trip of theirs was the cruelest test, showing me my true place in this family.

The next morning, as I was still trying to clean the kitchen, my phone rang. It was my mother, her voice frantic, “How are you? The neighbor called and said you had an accident, and you had to be casted. Is that true?” Hearing her voice, my eyes filled with tears. I replied, “I’m doing better now, I just got home a few days ago.” My mother was silent for a moment before saying firmly, “Your father and I are coming up this afternoon. We can’t leave you alone like this.”

I quickly tried to refuse. “No need, Mom. There’s still so much to do back home.” But she cut me off. “Everything can wait. Your health is more important.”

That afternoon, my parents arrived at the gate, carrying bags of food, medicine, and fruit from the countryside. As soon as I saw them, I couldn’t hold back my tears. They just flowed uncontrollably.

My father placed the bags down, looked me up and down, his eyes full of concern. “You look pale, how did you let yourself get this bad?” My mother opened the bag and said, “Come on, go rest while I cook you some hot porridge. You don’t have to do anything.” That evening, there was only the three of us at dinner, but the warmth in the air was striking. My father spoke slowly, “This house your parents bought for you, the paperwork is still in our name. Since the day you got married, we’ve never touched it. But if they don’t treat you right, we will take it back anytime.”

When I heard my father’s words, my heart sank. His words were not just a reminder, but also a quiet form of protection. For the first time in many months, I didn’t feel completely alone.

During the days my parents stayed with me, the house felt completely different. There were no more commands, no more critical looks. Instead, there was the sound of knives and cutting boards in the kitchen, the gentle aroma of chicken porridge, and my mother’s caring voice reminding me to take my medicine. In the mornings, my father swept the yard, wiped the doors, and quietly made me a cup of warm milk. In the afternoons, my mother would bring me a warm towel to change my bandages, asking if it hurt.

The care I received made me realize that I had forgotten what it felt like to be naturally cared for, without criticism. But at the same time, a heavy feeling still weighed on my heart, not from physical pain, but from the suffocating anger when I thought about how my in-laws had abandoned me.

One evening, after changing my bandages, my mother sighed, “Tell me the truth, since you’ve been in the hospital, has anyone from your in-laws asked about you?” I forced a smile, “No, my husband just sent a few words telling me to hang in there, then sent photos of his vacation.”

My father placed his teacup down, his voice turning somber. “Then we need to test their sincerity. If we continue to watch this, we won’t be able to let go of you.”

I was taken aback. “Test them? How?” My mother leaned in and whispered, “Tomorrow, you call your in-laws and pretend that the doctor says your condition has worsened and that you need someone to come quickly to sign papers. See how they react. If they truly care, they will come back immediately. If not, you’ll know.”

I hesitated, partly afraid of being blamed, but also wanting to know the truth. I thought about it all night, and finally, I nodded.

The next morning, while my parents sat in the living room, I picked up the phone and dialed my mother-in-law’s number. My heart raced as the phone rang. She picked up.

“Hello, what is it?” she asked.

I pretended to sound anxious. “Mom, the doctor said I’ve developed complications. I need someone to come quickly to sign some documents. Can you come back?” There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, then she replied curtly, “It’s too far for me to come back now. Just ask the neighbors or your own parents to take care of it.”

Before I could say anything, I heard Tuan’s voice cutting in, speaking in a tone as if discussing the weather. “I’m busy with my schedule, can’t leave. You’ll have to manage on your own, don’t call me again.” My mother-in-law chimed in, “Yes, I’ve told you. If anything happens, call someone else. I’m busy, goodbye.”

The line went dead, and I set the phone down, my hands trembling. It wasn’t fear—it was rage.

My father furrowed his brow, and my mother shook her head. “See? Their indifference to your life and death is nothing more than a trivial matter to them.”

It felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me, and all the tolerance I had shown over the past two years evaporated in that instant. That afternoon, while my parents were making tea, I sat down at the table and spoke slowly. “I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

My father looked straight into my eyes. “If you’ve made up your mind, we will help you. This house is ours, and the paperwork is still in our name. We can take it back at any time.”

I took a deep breath. For the first time in my life, I felt a sense of relief knowing that I still had an escape. That evening, I began going through all the paperwork since I had moved in.

Every receipt for furniture, the fridge, the washing machine, the air conditioner—all were in my name, with my phone number listed. I gathered everything into a neat file. On the other hand, the property my in-laws contributed was almost nothing—an old motorbike from the wedding and a few odds and ends.

When everything was ready, I called an old friend who worked as a real estate agent. She was surprised when I told her I wanted to sell the house. “This house is in a great location, it’ll sell quickly, but are you sure?” I replied decisively, “The sooner, the better.”

Just two days later, three groups of potential buyers came to view the property. I invited them in, explaining the size, location, and surrounding amenities. That afternoon, a young couple agreed to put down a deposit immediately. They even said they wanted to move in as soon as possible. I nodded inwardly, knowing that allowing them to move in immediately would leave my in-laws with no chance to reclaim the house when they returned. This wasn’t just selling a house—it was a definitive end.

The next day, my parents came to the city to handle the paperwork. Since the title was still in their name, everything went smoothly. It only took one session at the notary office. The contract was stamped, and the money from the sale was transferred directly into my father’s account. He looked at the notification of the transfer, then softly said, “From now on, this is yours, no one can take it.”

I smiled, a sense of safety spreading through me.

For the first time in many months, I felt like I truly had control over my own life. In the following days, I began packing. Everything I took had receipts proving it belonged to me. I hired a small truck to transport things in batches to avoid drawing attention. Everything went quickly and smoothly. Within three days, most of the house was emptied. On the final day of moving, I handed the keys to the new owners. They planned to move in before my in-laws came back from their trip.

I didn’t tell anyone except my parents, but in my mind, I had already pictured the scene of my in-laws returning, standing in front of the house and facing a stranger living there. No need for signs, no need for any message, just letting them see for themselves—that would be the clearest answer to everything. That afternoon, the sky was clear, and the sunlight gently bathed the small alley.

From the window of the acquaintance’s house, I could see straight across to my old home. It had been three days since I handed the keys over to the new owners, and I knew today was the day my in-laws were returning from their beach vacation. The sound of suitcase wheels echoed again—an eerie reminder of the abandonment I had felt more than 10 days ago. Three people appeared at the end of the alley.

My mother-in-law wore a thin sun-protective shirt and a wide-brimmed hat that shielded half her face. Tuan pulled a suitcase, his shoulders carrying a backpack, while my sister-in-law held a bag of souvenirs. They walked and talked, laughing joyfully, as if they had just returned from a perfect vacation. But their smiles faded when they reached the gate. The door was unlocked, as it always was. From inside, I could hear the sound of voices and children laughing.

The door creaked open, and a young woman carrying a one-year-old child stepped out, her eyes full of surprise. “Hello, can I help you?” she asked. My mother-in-law furrowed her brows. “This is my house. Who are you?” The young woman smiled politely but replied firmly, “This house was bought by my family last week. We have a notarized contract. Maybe you’re looking for someone else?”

“What?” My sister-in-law gasped. “Why is someone else in our house?”

From the balcony across, I watched closely, noticing every furrowed brow, every glance exchanged. Tuan stepped forward and spoke sharply, “What are you talking about? This is our house.” The new owner remained calm. “I bought it from the person listed on the paperwork. All the procedures are legal. If you need, you can verify at the notary office.”

She closed the gate with a soft click. I saw Tuan immediately pull out his phone. Three rings later, he answered. “You’re back? What’s going on? Where’s the house? Why is there someone else inside?”

I replied slowly, “The house is in my parents’ name. They sold it. The new owners have already moved in.” Tuan nearly yelled, “Who gave you permission to do this?”

“I don’t need permission. This is my family’s property, and my parents have the right to do whatever they want with it.”

On the other side, I could hear my mother-in-law shouting angrily, “You think you can just sell our house? What happened to our stuff?”

I replied calmly, “What stuff of yours? Bring me the receipts, and I’ll return it.”

Tuan shouted, “You have to give everything back!”

I chuckled coldly. “You can take this to court if you want. Let the law decide.”

I hung up the phone, my hands shaking slightly, but my heart was as solid as stone.

That evening, I guessed they wouldn’t let this go. Sure enough, the next morning, loud knocking echoed from the house of our acquaintance. My father opened the door, and my mother-in-law stormed in, her voice full of anger. “Give me back my things! After all these years of buying stuff, you’ve cleared out the house!”

I sat still, waiting for her to finish, then replied, “What’s yours? Bring me the receipts, and I’ll return it.”

Tuan cut in. “We don’t need receipts. Everyone knows what’s in the house. I’ve seen it.”

“Sorry, you need to leave. I want the law to clarify this.”

My mother-in-law’s eyes burned with fury, but she couldn’t say anything more. Two days later, they filed a lawsuit. The court hearing took place in a small room, under harsh white light.

The officials asked about each item—the dining table, the fridge, the washing machine. I pulled out all the receipts I had prepared. My name and phone number were clearly printed on each one. My mother-in-law presented several crumpled papers with no valid receipts. Tuan stammered, trying to claim that the gold jewelry was exchanged for household items.

The officials made a note in the record. “Without evidence to confirm shared property, there is no division.” The result was clear.

Almost all the belongings belonged to me. The house had been sold legally, and the money was safely in my father’s account. My in-laws had only a worn-out motorbike and a few small items left.

As we walked out of the court, my mother-in-law’s face was red with embarrassment. “You’ll regret this!” she shouted.

I simply said, “I’ve already regretted enough.”

Tuan remained silent for the entire ride home. When we were near our house, he spoke. “Let’s just sign the divorce papers. There’s no point in staying in this marriage.”

I nodded immediately. I had been thinking the same thing.

The divorce signing went quickly. The property division was clear, and there was little argument. When I held the divorce decree in my hand, I felt as though a heavy, iron door in my heart had swung open.

Tuan walked out first, holding the papers, his gaze fixed downward. I looked at him—the man who had once been my hope—now just an empty figure, a silhouette fading in the distance. My mother-in-law stood outside, her eyes full of hostility.

This time, I didn’t lower my head or avoid her gaze. I walked forward confidently, my steps firm, like someone who had just regained control of her life.

I thought that after signing the divorce papers, everything would settle down, but I was wrong.

Only a week later, my story spread throughout the neighborhood and even to the market. I don’t know who started it, but once the rumors began, they spread like wildfire, exaggerated and full of embellishments. That afternoon, as I was hanging laundry outside, my neighbor, Mrs. Tu, came over. She sat down and whispered, “Hey, the story about your ex-husband’s family is all over the neighborhood. People are even saying you lost the house because of an accident.”

I gave a bitter smile.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much the gist of it. An accident, abandonment, selling the house, and ending up with nothing.”

On the other side, my former mother-in-law seemed too ashamed to go to the market as usual. One of her friends said that when she entered a fish stall, people nearby started gossiping, “She went on vacation and left her daughter-in-law at home with a broken leg, now she’s left with nothing.” My mother-in-law immediately turned around and walked out without buying anything.

As for Tuan, a few people who ran into him at the market or on the street said he no longer had the same confident posture, boasting about his bonuses. Now, he always had his head down, his old motorbike rattling behind him, bags hanging off the back seat. No longer the man who used to flaunt his two-month bonus, he couldn’t even count on his own relatives to support him.

One day, Uncle Hai, Tuấn’s older brother, stopped by my parents’ house. He stood outside the gate and called out, “Child, I’ve heard what happened, and I feel sorry for both sides. But it’s clear now, whoever did something has to bear the consequences. I just hope you live in peace.” I smiled and replied, “I also wish for the same, Uncle.” But I knew this story had become a vivid lesson for the whole neighborhood.

People looked at the situation and learned one thing: if you look down on others, especially the ones you live with, you will eventually pay the price. I’m not the type of person to dig into others’ wounds, but every once in a while, when I overheard someone talking about how they were shunned or blamed by their relatives, I felt a sense of satisfaction.

Not because they were suffering, but because justice had been served. They were now tasting the same bitterness they once gave me. One day, I went to the market with my mother. We passed by a group of women sitting, drinking tea. I overheard one of them say, “In this day and age, don’t ever look down on your daughter-in-law. The property belongs to whoever’s name is on the deed, or else you’ll lose it all without even realizing it.”

Who mistreated them? I kept walking without looking back, but my heart felt light. No matter what people said, it no longer hurt me—it was just like the sound of rain on a tiled roof, soft and transient. In those early days, I felt like I was becoming the girl I once was. In the mornings, I’d wake up to the sound of roosters crowing, and my mother would have already cooked a pot of rice, with a bowl of crab soup flavored with water spinach on the side. My father would often call me out to the garden, showing me how to trim the eggplant beds or mound up the bean plants.

My health quickly recovered. The wound on my leg healed, the dizziness disappeared, my skin became healthier, my eyes brighter, and I smiled more often. I returned to my freelance work, the kind I had done before marriage. At first, I took on small projects, but gradually, more clients sought me out.

My office was a small room next to a window. While typing away at my computer, I could hear the birds singing in the garden, a far more refreshing feeling than any office in the city. In the afternoons, I would go to the fields to help some of the neighboring women harvest rice or pull up vegetables. The lively conversations and bright laughter amid the wide, expansive fields made me forget all those suffocating months. I learned to set boundaries for myself.

I realized that not everyone deserves your sacrifice or unconditional patience. The people who truly love you will never abandon you in times of difficulty. As for those who are ready to turn their backs on you, the best thing to do is let them go from your life as soon as possible. One afternoon, my mother and I were sitting on the porch, picking herbs, as the golden sunset bathed the brick yard in warm light.

My mother looked at me and slowly said, “Do you see? Life is short. If you lose something, you will find it again. What’s important is to keep your health and your peace of mind.” I nodded, knowing that without my parents by my side, I wouldn’t have had the courage to be so decisive. On weekends, I helped my mother sell vegetables and herbs at the market. It wasn’t about making a profit—it was more about connecting with the community and chatting with the locals.

Everyone praised how healthy and radiant I looked now. Hearing those words made me happy—not because of the compliments, but because I knew I had truly made it through the darkest phase of my life. Every now and then, I would still hear news about my ex-in-laws. They were still renting a house in the city, their lives hadn’t improved much, but I no longer cared. Everyone has to face the consequences of their own choices.

They had chosen neglect, and now they were living with the result of that decision. In the evenings, after finishing my work, I would go outside and sit under the sky, watching the moon rise. The soft moonlight spread over everything like a warm golden blanket. The sounds of insects buzzing mingled with the breeze rustling through the trees.

I closed my eyes and felt a peace that once seemed so distant. I knew my life had turned a page. No more tense family dinners, no more sharp words, no more bowing my head in submission. I had found myself again—stronger, wiser, and more appreciative of who I was than ever before. The days I spent living in the countryside passed more peacefully than I had imagined.

In the mornings, I would wake up early, open the window to let the breeze carry the scent of ripe rice, and hear the roosters crowing from the far end of the village. My mother would have prepared a simple but comforting breakfast—sometimes a bowl of hot crab soup with noodles, other times a plate of fried dough cakes scented with sesame. My father would sit on the porch, sipping tea slowly, his eyes calm and content.

I began to realize a simple truth: happiness often doesn’t lie in grand things, but in the fact that every day, I was living in a safe and loving environment, surrounded by those who truly cared for me. Looking back on the two years I spent as a daughter-in-law, I realized those years didn’t just take away my health and my tears, but also taught me lessons I would never forget.

I used to believe that marriage was just between two people, that as long as I tried my best and treated the other person well, they would appreciate me. But the reality is that marriage involves both families. If one side doesn’t value you, no matter how patient and tolerant you are, it’s all just a waste of effort.

In the past, I would tell myself that eventually, they would understand my intentions. But now, I know that tolerance only teaches others to take advantage of your endurance. And when you are at your weakest, they will abandon you because, in their eyes, you were never truly important.

Once, I was sitting with my mother on the porch when she said, “Do you know? People’s hearts change quickly. Today they can smile and talk with you, but tomorrow, they can turn their backs. Only parents will never abandon their children.”

I heard her words and felt a lump rise in my throat.

Indeed, during the days I had my leg in a cast, only my parents rushed from the countryside to take care of me, while those who once ate and slept under the same roof were busy taking pictures at the beach. I don’t hate them, and I don’t seek revenge. I believe that life is fair in its own way. Those who sow will reap the consequences. They sowed indifference and now reap loneliness. The mocking looks from society and the long nights in a cramped rented house. My father once told me to know how to hold onto my rights.
“Don’t let anyone think they can decide your life.” At the time, I didn’t fully understand. But the day I held the contract to sell the house and walked out of that empty house, I realized that the right to make decisions lies in my hands, and that is what protects me.
Some people say I went too far by selling the house and then getting a divorce, but they don’t know what I’ve endured. If I hadn’t been resolute, maybe I’d still be lying in a damp room, listening to complaints and commands, letting each day pass by as I lost myself more and more. Now, every morning when I wake up, I hear the birds singing on the roof, and I breathe in the fragrant smell of the rice my mother has cooked.
Seeing my father bent over in the garden, I know I made the right choice. Happiness doesn’t have to be a big beautiful house in the city, but living in a place where I don’t have to be afraid, where I don’t have to force myself to please anyone. A place where I have the right to speak up, the right to refuse, and the right to walk away when I am no longer respected. That afternoon, I sat in front of the porch, holding the warm cup of tea my mother had just poured for me.
The sky had turned autumn, and the breeze carried the scent of ripened rice from the distant fields. The sun slowly disappeared behind the row of trees, leaving a streak of golden-orange light across the sky. I looked at the steaming tea drops, and instinctively thought about the time that had passed. Two years of being a daughter-in-law, I had cried, hoped, and then been disappointed.
I used to believe that kindness would be reciprocated. But it turns out that kindness given to the wrong people only brings more pain. Now, it’s all over. I don’t blame anyone, because those days have helped me grow, understand my self-worth, and learn to cherish those who truly love me.
I looked down the village road, watching children playing and laughing in the distance. An elderly person passed by, carrying a basket of vegetables, and smiled at me, “You’re back? Is life in the countryside better than in the city?” I replied, my voice light, “Yes, it’s joyful and peaceful here.” Peace. Two simple words, but you can only truly appreciate them after going through storms.
Peace is waking up to the sound of birds chirping, having a meal cooked by my mother, and talking with my father in the evening. Peace is knowing that if I’m tired, there will always be someone by my side who won’t leave me to fate. I hope that those who hear this story, especially women, will understand. We deserve love and respect. Marriage should never be a prison, and it should not be a place where we trade our health. Youth is too precious to be wasted on indifference.
If someone truly cares, they will be there when you need them the most. And if they choose to turn their back, let them go, and open the door for yourself to walk out. Don’t be afraid of loss, because sometimes letting go is the only way to find peace. I took a sip of tea, the initial bitterness made my tongue tingle, but soon after, there was a sweetness lingering at the back of my throat.
My life is the same. I had to go through bitter days to finally taste the sweetness of freedom and happiness. I smiled softly to myself, “From now on, I will live for myself and for those who truly love me.” Outside, the autumn breeze blew gently, the leaves swayed in the sunset light, and a heart that had found peace returned. And I knew I would never lose it again.