My wife passed away early, leaving me to raise our young child alone. Everyone encouraged me to move on and remarry. A year later, I married a woman who had once been divorced. Seeing how my second wife loved my child, I felt somewhat at ease and went to work far away to earn money. But one time, when I came home without notice, I was stunned to see my child…

“I came home in the middle of a rainy night, my heart light because I was about to hold my son in my arms. But when I pushed the door open, what I saw made my heart feel like it was being crushed…”

Minh Tuấn never imagined his life would take such a painful turn. More than two years ago, his wife, Lan, died in a traffic accident on her way to her hometown. At that time, their son, Gia Bảo, had just turned four. The funeral was steeped in gloom. Relatives and friends pitied him as he clung desperately to his wife’s coffin, one arm holding his young child who didn’t yet understand what was happening.

From that day on, Tuấn’s life sank into darkness. Being both father and mother while also carrying the burden of making a living kept him awake many nights. Family and neighbors all advised him: “You’re still young, think of your child, find someone to lean on.” But back then, the thought of remarrying felt too distant.

It wasn’t until more than a year later, through an acquaintance, that he met Hồng – a woman who had gone through a divorce. Hồng had no children, was gentle, knew how to cook, and seemed to genuinely love little Bảo. In the beginning, when Tuấn brought his son to visit her, Bảo, though quiet, did not act distant, which reassured him somewhat.

After a while, they held a simple wedding. Both families were happy to see that he had finally found a new home. Tuấn continued working far away in Hanoi, returning home only occasionally for a few days. Hồng stayed home, doing housework and caring for Bảo, even enrolling him in extra classes and tutoring him in the evenings. At first, everything seemed smooth. Each time he called via video, he saw his wife laughing with his child, and his son happily showing off his drawings. His heart felt lighter, and the guilt toward his late wife gradually eased.

But recently, something began to trouble Tuấn. Video calls grew shorter. Bảo spoke less, standing silently behind his stepmother. When he asked about it, Hồng only smiled and said, “Maybe he misses his dad.” At first, he believed her, but uneasiness slowly grew inside him.

One night, during a late shift, Tuấn received a message from a neighbor – Mai, an old classmate of his late wife:
“Tuấn, today I saw Hồng hitting little Bảo in the yard. He didn’t cry, just stood frozen. I couldn’t ignore it, so I’m letting you know.”

Tuấn’s heart raced. He immediately called Hồng, but she didn’t answer. He tried to call his son, but his phone had been taken away after 8 p.m.

That night, he asked for leave and caught the earliest bus home.

The coach rolled quietly through heavy rain. Tuấn sat at the back, his mind in turmoil. Part of him didn’t want to believe the neighbor’s words, but another part of him screamed: “Who have you entrusted your son to?”

When he arrived home, it was close to midnight. The yard light still glowed faintly. He gently opened the gate, careful not to make a sound.

As he stepped into the living room, he froze upon hearing a harsh but clear voice from the bedroom:

“How many times have I told you? Eat properly, don’t spill again! Your mother is dead, I’m not your servant!”

It was Hồng’s voice. A chill shot through his chest. He didn’t hear his son respond. Then came a crash — a bowl shattering.

He shoved the door open. Hồng spun around, startled, while little Bảo sat huddled in the corner of the bed, a faint bruise visible on his cheek.

Tuấn couldn’t say a word. He just stood there, fists clenched, trembling.

“I… I didn’t hit him hard, he’s too stubborn, he doesn’t listen—”

Tuấn quietly walked forward, picked up his son. Bảo clung tightly to his neck, not crying, not speaking. His eyes were dry, unnaturally mature.

That night, Tuấn held his son close in his old room. Outside, Hồng cried. Inside Tuấn, the sound of breaking echoed like slow, painful bells.

Morning came. The rain had stopped, leaving glistening drops on the banana leaves behind the house. Tuấn sat on the wooden bench at the porch, eyes sunken, holding a cup of black coffee gone cold. Bảo was still asleep in the room, perhaps too exhausted or too drained by what no child should ever endure—especially a six-year-old.

The house was unusually quiet, as if the very air was trying not to disturb something that had just shattered.

Hồng came out later, her eyes red, her hands trembling as she held a cloth. She sat a short distance from Tuấn, saying nothing. Only when Tuấn spoke, his voice hoarse, did the silence break:

“How long have you been hitting my son?”

Hồng lowered her head, silent. Tuấn pressed each word out:

“I asked, how long?”

After a long pause, she whispered:

“About… two months. Since he started being defiant… he stares at me, refuses to eat, breaks things…”

Tuấn let out a laugh, twisted and bitter:

“He’s six years old. He’s not an adult who knows how to behave the way you expect. His mother died when he was just a baby. And I… I entrusted him to you because I trusted you.”

She burst into tears:

“I didn’t mean to… at first, I truly loved him. But over time, I grew so tired. He never called me ‘mother,’ never hugged me, as if I were just a stranger. I felt like I could never replace your wife…”

Tuấn clenched his fists, staring out into the rain-soaked yard.
“I never needed you to replace anyone. All I needed was for you to love my child as your own. I didn’t need a perfect wife, only a kind mother for him. But now… I can’t trust you anymore.”

That day, Tuấn took a long leave from work. He told his construction team in Hanoi that he had family matters and needed to stay home. He also called his own mother, telling her everything. She went silent for a while, then said:

“You’re a father. You must give Bảo a safe place. He is your flesh and blood.”

Tuấn decided to separate. He didn’t make a big scene or rush to court. Instead, he brought Bảo to his maternal grandparents’ home for a while, giving the boy time to heal, and himself a chance to reflect. Hồng moved back to her mother’s house in the next village.

In the beginning, Bảo remained quiet and withdrawn. Every night, Tuấn held him close as he slept, listening to his son’s sleep-talk, softly calling out “mother.” But it wasn’t Hồng—it was his late wife. Tuấn had once believed time could heal everything, but he realized now that some wounds never truly disappear, they only lie dormant.

Three months later, Bảo slowly returned to being a lively child. He laughed more, played with his toys in the yard, and drew pictures of his father holding him with the caption: “My dad Tuấn is my hero.”

Tuấn also began working as a builder at a site near home, so he could stay close to his son. Every morning, father and son rode their old motorbike together to school and work, then returned home together in the evening. Those simple yet precious moments felt like his way of making up for the days his son had lost.

One afternoon, Hồng came to see Tuấn. She asked to speak one last time.

“I’ve been seeing a psychologist. I understand now… I shouldn’t have stepped into a family still drowning in loss, one that wasn’t ready. I’m sorry for hurting your son. If… if someday you meet someone better, please don’t let what happened with me make you lose faith.”

Tuấn was silent. He no longer felt anger—only regret. Regret for the stretch of road they had walked together but couldn’t endure.
“I don’t hate you. But now, I can only choose what’s best for my son.”

A year later, when things had settled, Tuấn officially divorced. He and Bảo lived peacefully in a small house by the bamboo grove. Every week, Tuấn took his son to art class, taught him how to fix bikes, and cooked meals together.

Sometimes, people tried to arrange matches for him, but he only smiled and thanked them. He didn’t close his heart, but now, his first concern was no longer his own happiness, but this: “Will that person truly love my son?”

And for Tuấn, being a father—that was his life’s calling.