That night, I went outside to use the restroom. Looking at the clock, it was nearly midnight. As I walked past Thoa’s room…

My name is Trâm, 35 years old, living and working in Ho Chi Minh City. My family is fairly well-off, with a two-story house in a quiet residential area in District 7. I’m a human resources team leader at a pharmaceutical company, while my husband, Phong, is a construction engineer. Our life was stable; we had a 9-year-old son named Tít, who was smart and well-behaved.

Everything was peaceful until my father-in-law, Mr. Nguyễn Văn Đẩu, 68, fell down the stairs at his home in Nam Định and had to be rushed to the hospital. After nearly a month of treatment, he recovered but was left with lasting mobility issues, requiring constant care. Both my husband and I worked full-time, so we couldn’t stay home all day. Hiring a helper became inevitable.

We had tried hiring people through agencies, but they often quit after just a few weeks, making excuses. Some did their work but showed little respect for the old man. After several disappointments, I decided to go back to my mother’s hometown in Thanh Hóa to find someone trustworthy among acquaintances.

There, I was introduced to Thoa — a woman around 50, widowed, with grown children working far away. She was gentle, soft-spoken, and had cared for her own elderly mother for the last five years of her life. When I asked if she would come to Saigon to work for us, she hesitated for a few days before agreeing.

From the very first day, Thoa put my mind at ease. She was attentive, never complained, never slacked off. In the morning, she got up early to cook porridge for my father-in-law. At noon, she did the laundry, and in the evening, she cleaned and bathed him. Mr. Đẩu — a meticulous man, rarely pleased — grew fond of her. One day, I even heard him say:
“Thoa is good, considerate, not like those maids before.”

I smiled, feeling lucky.

But before long, things began to feel… off.

First, my father-in-law became much quieter. The casual chats he used to have with me or his grandson dwindled. He often sat silently on the chair, eyes fixed on the window. When I asked, he would only mutter, “Nothing, I’m just tired.”

I also noticed changes in Thoa. She avoided my gaze, no longer told stories about the countryside as before. Sometimes while working, she would murmur softly to herself, as if whispering.

My husband paid no attention. He said maybe she was just tired or not yet used to city life.

Things reached their peak one Saturday night.

That night, I woke up around midnight to use the restroom. As I walked down the hallway on the ground floor, I noticed Thoa’s room was still lit. Normally, she went to bed early — always turning off the light before 10.

I slowed my steps and… heard the faint creaking of a bed, mixed with soft whispers.
My mind raced with possibilities: was she on the phone? Did someone enter her room? Or was she doing something suspicious?

My heart pounded. I hesitated for a moment, then knocked softly on the door.

No response.

I knocked louder, then pushed the door open.

The sight before me left me frozen.

Thoa was sitting beside the bed, taking off her thin jacket, and… wrapping a bandage around my father-in-law’s shoulder. Bruises were clearly visible on his arm and shoulder. On the floor lay a bottle of medicated oil, a wet towel, and a small roll of gauze. She turned to look at me, her face betraying shock and panic.

I stood stunned for a moment before stammering, “What’s going on here?”

Thoa fumbled: “I’m sorry, I didn’t dare to tell you. He slipped when going to the bathroom. He begged me not to let you know, afraid you’d worry.”

I stepped closer, seeing my father-in-law turn his face away in silence.

Everything… was completely different from what I had imagined.

After that night, I sat down to have a serious talk with both Thoa and my father-in-law. Mr. Đẩu admitted he had fallen two days earlier while trying to go to the bathroom by himself without calling Thoa. Out of pride, he told her not to mention it to me, only asking her to help and bandage him.

I felt angry, but also touched. Thoa had silently shouldered the burden, just to keep his word.

I asked, “Why didn’t you call me? Handling this alone at night—what if something serious had happened to him?”

She simply answered softly, “I was afraid you’d think I couldn’t take care of him and fire me.”

Her words made my throat tighten. All this time, I had thought of Thoa only as a maid, someone obligated to serve my family. But in that moment, I realized—she didn’t see herself that way. She treated him like family, like her own father.

From that night onward, I changed how I treated her. I started checking in on her more, giving her a voice in the household. Once, when I had to travel for work, I left her and my father-in-law at home, and when I returned, everything was still in perfect order.

That misunderstanding became a turning point in how I saw others.

Three months later, my father-in-law had recovered significantly and could walk around the house with a cane. Thoa asked for two weeks’ leave to return to her hometown for her husband’s memorial. I personally accompanied her to the bus station, slipped her extra money for the trip, and reminded her: “Please come back, we’ll all be waiting for you.”

She smiled, her eyes glistening: “Don’t worry. I’ll be back. This place is my home now, too.”

I nodded. And I knew then—there are misunderstandings which, if left unresolved, could make us lose something truly precious. But luckily, I had opened that door at just the right time.