I boarded a red-eye flight to Da Nang for a conference. Just before takeoff, Hân—my wife—texted me: “Fly safe. I can’t sleep… it sounds like footsteps in the house.” I chuckled to reassure her: “It’s just the water pump. If you’re scared, ask my mother to come sleep over for a night.” Hân typed slowly: “I’m embarrassed…” But in the end, she agreed.

Our apartment complex was so quiet you could hear the wind slip through the door frame. My mother lived in the next building; that night she came over with a thermos of warm water, some tea leaves, and a bag of biscuits. “A woman alone tends to imagine things—go to sleep, I’m here,” she said. Two silhouettes overlapped on the bedroom wall: one slim, flinching at every flap of the curtain; the other steady and gentle, like a bamboo stalk in the wind.

Hân couldn’t sleep. Her hand rested on her belly out of habit, her breath uneven as she rubbed it. My mother pulled up the blanket, sat against the headboard, and placed her warm palm lightly on her daughter-in-law’s abdomen, soothing her like a child: “Don’t think nonsense—there are no ghosts. Relax your shoulders, let your belly go soft.” Her elderly hand circled slowly, murmuring, “Sleep… sleep…”

In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, she saw pale, rippling lines across the skin: stretch marks curving toward the hips, and the lax softness of a belly that had once stretched and then collapsed. She fell silent. Her hand drew back, as if it had brushed a buried corner of memory.

The next morning, while I was waiting at baggage claim, my phone vibrated. It was my mother. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm.
— Come home. I want you to get a divorce.
— What are you saying, Mom?
— Come home, and you’ll understand.

I opened our door at dusk. The kitchen still smelled of ginger and lemongrass. Hân stood by the dining table, hands wet from the sink; her eyes met mine and then hurriedly dropped. My mother sat straight-backed on a chair, fingers interlaced, saying nothing.

— I want to hear it from your wife, — my mother said. — Then you decide for yourself.

I pulled out a chair. The scrape against the floor sounded harsh.
— Is there something you haven’t told me? — I asked.

Hân wouldn’t look at me. She turned her wedding band, lips trembling. After a long while, her voice came out thin as a thread:

— Before I married you… I was… pregnant with my ex. We planned to marry, but… he left while I was six months along. I kept the baby… and then… I lost it. When I was over eight months.

Her sentence broke on the word “over.” The room suddenly shrank. I could hear the refrigerator hum and the clock tick in the silence between us. My mother’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. I gripped the chair until the tendons stood out.

— Why didn’t you tell me? — I tried to keep my voice calm. — Just once, before we married. Why not?

Hân lowered her head, tears soaking the backs of her hands.
— I was afraid. Afraid you’d despise me, afraid your mother wouldn’t accept me. I thought… if the past was gone… I could start anew, fresh. I didn’t think the day would come… — she choked, then forced herself to finish — …when my own belly would betray me.

My mother set a cup of tea in front of me.
— Men can forgive, but a marriage can’t live on half-forgiveness. We do not fear the past; we fear the lie. Last night I rubbed her belly and knew—this is a woman who has been a mother. I don’t blame what happened; I blame what wasn’t spoken.

I looked at Hân. Memories reeled like film in reverse: the afternoon she stood by the window watching sparrows; the first time she made scallion porridge when I was sick; the night we read by flashlight during a blackout. She was the woman I loved—beyond doubt. But in those frames a gap had opened—a place where truth should have stood from the very first day.

— I didn’t hide it to hurt you, — Hân said, her voice raw. — I hid it to save myself. Every time I think back, I hear the baby’s heartbeat in the ultrasound room, and then the silence… I can’t bear anyone saying the words out loud.

I breathed in deep. Heat from the tea seeped into my palm, yet I felt cold. I wasn’t angry about the child that was gone. I was angry at the wall of silence built between us. Not a high wall, but high enough that I no longer knew who stood on the other side.

— I love you, — I said slowly, each word heavy. — But I can’t get past this. Not because you were once pregnant, but because you didn’t choose me to carry the truth with you. Marriage, to me, is two people holding each other and trembling before the truth, not one holding and the other hiding.

Hân bit her lip until it bled. She nodded, as if signing a verdict she had written herself.
— I understand.

That night, I slept on the sofa. Hân lay in the bedroom with the door ajar. I heard a sob burst out and then be swallowed back down. My mother sat in the living room with her back to the window, sleepless. “I’ll speak to her family tomorrow,” she said. “Whatever you do, do it properly.” I nodded. The night sky was ink-black, without moon or starlight.

The paperwork went faster than I expected. When I signed, my hand shook so badly my signature warped. Hân wore no makeup—just the beige linen dress she often wore on weekends. She said nothing except, “Thank you for the beautiful days.” I wanted to return something equally tender, but my throat was full of sand.

Outside the courtroom, the hallway wind was sharp and hollow. I filed the documents into my bag and leaned on the railing. My mother walked beside me and sighed. “A woman’s life,” she said, “may pay a lifetime for a single reckless moment. But a man’s life is no different. A lie is small as a speck of dust—until it gathers into a storm.”

That evening, the house lacked one person, yet the wind sounded the same as the night I left on my trip. In the bedroom, on Hân’s vanity, there was a cracked jar of cream for belly skin. I opened it; the almond scent rose—sweet and astringent. Dazed, I set it back and slid open a drawer. Inside lay a small fabric-bound notebook. I took it to the table, hesitated, and opened it.

The handwriting listed across the page: “Today the baby kicked for the first time. I bought a brown teddy bear. I want to tell his father, but he says he’s busy. I’ll tell him, one day…” On the next page, a round stain had dried—perhaps a tear from long ago.

I closed the notebook. My whole body felt like it was falling down a well. I didn’t call Hân—not because I no longer loved her, but because I knew love can’t replace trust. And because if I called, we might try to patch a tear right along the warp of the cloth—patched or not, that spot would always be the thinnest.

Months later I ran into Hân at the supermarket. She stood in the plant-milk aisle reading the ingredients, then smiled hello. It was the same smile, only the eyes were different—more at peace. We exchanged a few pleasantries—work, the weather, whether the betel vine on the balcony was still alive. Then a pause long enough for both of us to understand everything had found its place: the past behind us, and a distance between.

I went home and brewed the tea my mother had left. She knocked on my door with a plate of roasted sweet potatoes, still fragrant. “Are you alright?” she asked. I nodded. She took my hand—dry and warm.

That night, the wind slipped through the doorframe again. No footsteps this time, only the rustle of dry leaves on the balcony. I switched off the light and sat in the dark. Some sorrows don’t need soothing—like a child grown old enough to lull itself to sleep. I realized I didn’t hate Hân, nor did I regret my decision. I only mourned a marriage that hadn’t been built from the clay of truth, starting with the very first brick.

If I hadn’t gone on that trip; if she had told me earlier; if my mother hadn’t rubbed her belly… perhaps. But life doesn’t accept “if.” It only hands us choices: to love, and to be honest. I chose to love, and learned too late that love without honesty is only a shadow—cold to the touch.

Our story ends with a divorce decree, but perhaps it begins again somewhere else: where people learn to tell the truth even when their hands still shake, and learn to listen even when their hearts still ache. And on a windy night in an empty house, I know I will love again—this time, with nothing to hide.