🔥A 65-Year-Old Aunt Buys 80kg of Beef Every Day, Shop Owner Reports Her to the Police – Everyone Was Shocked When the Police Broke In…/th

The county market was already bustling in the morning, but today, for some reason, Hai, the owner of the beef stall in the corner, stood still, knife in hand, eyes fixed on a familiar figure. The woman had arrived again, her back still hunched, wearing a worn brown jacket and carrying an old rattan basket, her short gray hair messy as if she had just had a sleepless night.

She didn’t look around or chat, just walked straight to Hai’s stall as usual.

“Please give me 25 kg of the best beef,” she said in a low, steady voice, without hesitation. Hai glanced at the freshly cut pile of meat.

“Buying that much again? You just got some yesterday.”

“Getting a lot so I can use it gradually,” she replied briefly, opening her bag and handing over the cash, bills scattered in a strangely careless manner.

Not every customer paid immediately and without haggling. Although this type of beef was not cheap, Hai’s concern wasn’t just about the money. Her name was known in the market, yet she had never bought anything other than beef—never touching pork, chicken, or fish—even when he offered tempting discounts.

At first, Hai thought maybe she ran a secret restaurant somewhere, but which restaurant would only serve beef? According to other vendors, she often refused customers who wanted to buy her beef at a higher price. Rumors began to spread in the market. Some said she kept dogs to ward off thieves, needing beef to please them. Others whispered that she was supplying food to an outside gang.

Why else would she carry dozens of kilograms of beef every day? The vegetable sellers in the area gossiped, glancing at her slowly disappearing figure. Hai, who usually avoided gossip, couldn’t help being irritated by her peculiar behavior. Partly out of curiosity, partly because his trade made him sensitive to bulk buyers.

If she really used this meat for illegal purposes, he would inadvertently be aiding her.

That afternoon, Hai met his old friend Tuan, now a neighborhood police officer, at a café. He recounted the story half-jokingly.

“Tell me, a woman over 60 buys 25 kg of beef every day, doesn’t sell, doesn’t eat, doesn’t share it with anyone. Strange, right?”

Tuan smirked. “Maybe she cooks for a secret military unit or something.”

“Seriously, I don’t feel right about it,” Hai said.

“Alright, let me check it out, but don’t jump to conclusions. Elderly people sometimes have their own reasons.” Despite this, Tuan’s eyes still held a trace of suspicion. They agreed to observe her the next morning.

The next day, at the break of dawn, Hai stood waiting at his stall. As expected, she appeared, the same rattan basket in hand, walking faster than her hunched back suggested.

She bought 25 kg of beef as usual, paid, and turned to leave. Hai noticed she didn’t head straight home as some vendors had claimed, but turned onto a dirt road leading to the outskirts. Despite the heavy basket on her shoulder, she walked briskly without stopping. Where was she going? Hai muttered to himself, quickly pulling aside his apron to signal his assistant to watch the stall.

He quietly followed the uneven dirt road to an abandoned lot. Before him was a deserted farm: rusted iron gates, patchy walls, overgrown weeds. Instead of entering through the main gate, she unlocked a familiar iron lock, pushed the door open, and slipped inside. A faint smell of dry grass and cornmeal wafted out.

Hai frowned; the smell wasn’t like a home kitchen, nor a cattle pen, but suggested some sort of enclosure. He hid behind a bush near the gate, trying to peek inside. He glimpsed a young man in a T-shirt carrying a large sack of rice. The two spoke and laughed, then disappeared into a side building. A loud clatter echoed.

Hai remembered the rumors about fierce dogs and food for strangers and felt a chill down his spine. He quickly texted Tuan: “I see it. Abandoned farm, a few young people coming and going, smell of feed, loud cooking sounds.”

The reply came fast: “Stay put, don’t make a move.” Hai stood still, heart racing.

He wondered—if this was some gang, he had just seen one accomplice. But what if he was following an innocent old lady? Yet suspicion rose again when she emerged carrying a large stainless steel pot, steam still rising from it. She placed it on a wooden table outside, then quickly returned inside, ignoring the strange sounds from within.

Laughter, chairs scraping, and chopping echoed. From afar, Hai glimpsed her face in the sunlight—calm, unafraid, as if at home. That calmness made him even more uneasy. Her shadow slowly disappeared behind the old wooden door, leaving Hai with a single nagging question: what was she really doing? He knew the answer wouldn’t be simple, and it might change how he viewed this woman forever.

The next morning, a light rain fell, dusting the market with a thin glaze. Knife sounds were quieter as everyone shrank from the sudden chill. Hai pulled his collar high, eyes fixed on the market entrance. At the usual hour, she appeared, hunched, basket in hand, walking steadily.

“Give me the usual,” she said, voice unchanged despite the rain and slippery ground. Hai wrapped the meat while discreetly watching her. Today she wore a thin raincoat, drenched at the hem, but her gaze remained fixed on the fresh beef, as if no one else existed. Money exchanged, she turned away.

Hai quickly packed up, pulled aside his apron, and signaled his assistant. He followed at a ten-meter distance. This time he no longer guessed her route—he was certain she would head to the outskirts. Indeed, she didn’t go to the residential area but toward the dirt road leading to the abandoned farm. The sound of her old bicycle rattled on the wet gravel.

Hai had to walk quickly to keep his distance while avoiding the eyes of passersby. The road gradually emptied, leaving only tall eucalyptus trees on either side, the wind rustling through their leaves, and the drizzle making the scene even more bleak and chilly.

Near the farm gate, the woman parked her bicycle and pulled out a bunch of keys. The metallic clinking echoed sharply in the silent surroundings.

The iron gate creaked loudly as she opened it, and the pungent smell of dry grass and cornmeal immediately wafted out, mixing with the musty odor of the old walls. Hai hid behind a eucalyptus tree, squinting as he watched her push the basket of meat inside and then disappear toward the row of side buildings. Soon after, a young man appeared from inside, strong-shouldered, carrying a large sack of rice.

He said something to her, and both laughed. But what caught Hai’s attention was not the laughter—it was the familiarity of the young man. He couldn’t recall having met him before, but he was sure the young man was not from the village. A stranger appearing in a deserted place, moving in and out with large quantities of food, was a sign that could not be ignored.

Hai quickly texted Tuan: “She just entered the farm with a strange young man, carrying a sack of rice. Strong smell of cornmeal.”

Tuan replied almost immediately: “I’m free this afternoon. I’ll come check in the evening. Don’t let her notice.”

Hai continued to observe. After a while, sounds of pots clanging, chopping, stirring, and boiling water came from inside.

The atmosphere inside did not resemble the criminal hideout he had imagined. Strangely, amidst the kitchen noises were the cheerful voices of several young people, laughing like at a festive gathering. Hai frowned. Could they be running a restaurant here? But if so, why hide it in an abandoned farm?

The rain fell harder, forcing Hai to retreat deeper into the trees to stay dry. From his vantage point, he glimpsed light through the wooden door, a fleeting image that made his heart skip. He saw the woman bent over a large fire, sweat beading her forehead, stirring bright red chunks of beef in a huge cast-iron pot. The scene confused him even more. An elderly person like her should be resting at home, so why was she doing hard labor in such a remote place?

That evening, Hai met Tuan.

Tuan was in casual clothes but still had his notebook and pen tucked in his shirt pocket—a professional habit.

“You’re really going to follow her tonight?” Tuan asked in a low voice.

“Yeah. I want to know the truth,” Hai replied.

They followed her as dusk fell, streetlights sparse, barely reflecting the streaks of rain. Near the farm, they took a detour around the back, following the old wall, looking for a gap wide enough to peek inside.

Inside, the lights shone brightly, and the scene stunned them. Two young people in matching green shirts gathered around wooden tables, chopping vegetables and laughing. In the middle, the woman directed, stirring soup with one hand while reminding someone to season it with salt. Before Tuan could finish his sentence, a loud laugh rang out from inside.

The atmosphere inside completely contradicted the grim exterior of the farm. But this contrast made the situation even more perplexing. If it were just a normal kitchen, why hide it? Why only beef? And why did she buy so much every day?

Tuan placed a hand on Hai’s shoulder, temporarily steadying him.

“Don’t let anyone notice,” he advised quietly, trying to figure out a way to approach. Hai nodded, but his heart grew heavier, the sense that they were nearing a great secret making it race faster than usual.

As they turned away, laughter and chatter continued to drift out, mixed with the sound of rain on the tin roof—a strange symphony, both warm and full of mystery. Hai knew tomorrow might bring the answers, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear them.

The next morning, the sun broke through after several rainy days. Hai arrived at the market earlier than usual, but she did not appear. Normally, she would have finished buying meat and left by now. Strange. Feeling a hunch, Hai left the stall in the care of his assistant and went searching.

He followed the familiar path toward the old market, where people usually collected recyclables in the morning. Sure enough, in a corner by a pile of sacks, he found her—but not moving briskly as usual. She was sitting on the ground, carefully cleaning each tin can, gloves worn and tattered.

She worked slowly, as if afraid of denting the cans, occasionally smiling and greeting nearby vendors who replied with polite inquiries. Once the sacks were tied and loaded onto her bicycle, she pushed them to the scrap shop. Hai followed silently. The buyer weighed the items and paid her a few dozen thousand dong. She didn’t haggle, simply nodded, then went to the fruit stall nearby to select the ripest mangoes and the freshest rambutan.

With the remaining money, she bought some candies, neatly placing them in her basket. Hai was more confused—if she needed money, why buy only good things? And where did the money come from for the large quantities of beef she bought daily?

That afternoon, Hai and Tuan returned to the farm. This time, they decided to go inside. The old iron gate creaked as before, but instead of barking dogs or a grim atmosphere, the sweet aroma of stewed meat filled the air, along with the sounds of cooking and laughter.

They ventured further and froze at the sight before them. A spacious room, walls painted white and surprisingly clean compared to the exterior’s dilapidation. About twenty young volunteers in green shirts, hair damp with sweat, were busily preparing meals. On the tables sat a massive pot of braised beef, a pot of pumpkin soup, a pan of vibrant green water spinach, and plates of freshly cut fruit.

In the center of the room, Mrs. Lanh stood like a conductor, orchestrating the bustling kitchen. Her hand held a ladle, stirring the soup, while her voice directed, “Add a bit more fish sauce for flavor. And for the stir-fried vegetables, keep the heat high.”

A student carried a basket of vegetables. “Miss, I’ve washed them. Are they okay?”

She smiled kindly. “Very good. Leave them here for now; later we’ll stir-fry them with garlic.”

Hai and Tuan stood still for a long moment, feeling as if they were separated from the outside world. This atmosphere was so different from what they had imagined—nothing mysterious or dangerous, just a lively, warm kitchen.

Mrs. Lanh noticed them and looked surprised. “Hai, Tuan, is that you? Why are you here?”

Tuan smiled reassuringly. “Please don’t misunderstand, we just wanted to know what’s going on.”

Hai looked directly into her eyes. “Why do you buy 25 kg of beef every day?”

Mrs. Lanh sighed lightly, set down her ladle, and gestured for them to follow her to the veranda. A gentle breeze carried the scent of dry grass. She gazed into the distance.

“Do you know? My son Hung used to wear a green shirt like these kids.”

That summer, he volunteered in a flood-affected area and saved a trapped family—but never came back. Her voice grew somber, and Hai felt a lump in his throat. Before he left, he had given her some money for her retirement, but she hadn’t spent a penny. She believed that if he were alive, he would have used that money to care for students just like him.

“So every summer, I buy all the meat and rice so the kids can have nutritious meals and energy to help others,” she explained.

Tuan whispered, “So the beef is for them. They work hard, sometimes all day without a proper meal. Beef is both nourishing and filling.”

Mrs. Lanh smiled faintly, though tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t want anyone to know, fearing people might think she was boasting about helping. To explain it would ruin it.

Hai felt his nose sting. All the suspicions of the past few days seemed petty and insignificant. He looked at Mrs. Lanh—the bent-back, rough-handed woman with a heart so warm and strong.

From inside, a student called, “Miss, the soup is ready!”

She turned and smiled. “Okay, Vo, come serve it.” Before she left, she said something that Hai would never forget.

“Losing a child hurts deeply, but seeing others healthy and smiling makes me feel as if he is still here.”

Hai stood silently, watching her step into the brightly lit kitchen, blending into the laughter and the aroma of the meal. From that day on, whenever he saw her at the market, he no longer looked with suspicion, but with deep respect.

That afternoon, Hai returned to his stall, but his mood was unlike usual. The sounds of chopping knives and bargaining customers seemed distant. In his mind, only the image of her bent over the stove, sweat on her brow but eyes shining warmly, lingered. He recalled every word she had spoken, even the way she held the ladle as if it were her most precious possession.

A wave of remorse rose within him. For days, he had looked at her with suspicion, even silently accusing her. That evening, after the market closed, Hai put the remaining meat in the fridge and rode straight to the farm. The gate was closed, but the lights still shone. He knocked gently, and after a moment, the gate opened—revealing the young man from before, now he knew his name was Phuc, a third-year student at a nearby university. Phuc smiled, welcoming him.

“Mr. Hai, Mrs. Lanh is in the kitchen. Please come in.”

Mrs. Lanh was surprised to see him. “Why are you here at this hour? Is something wrong?”

Hai stood silently for a moment, then bowed his head. “Please forgive me. I misunderstood you in the past days. I thought you were doing something secret, which is why I followed you.”

She smiled gently, her eyes deep yet kind.

“Misunderstandings are cleared by speaking. I’m not angry, and I must thank you too. If I had truly done something wrong, you would have stopped me.”

Her gentle reply made Hai feel even more ashamed. He looked around at the students cleaning up after dinner, all cheerful. On the table, the massive pot of braised beef was nearly empty, the aroma still lingering.

Hai spoke slowly, “From now on, if you need more meat, just tell me. I’ll pick the best cuts and give you a discount—consider it my small contribution.”

Mrs. Lanh paused, then smiled. “Thank you, but remember, help sincerely, not expecting repayment.”

The news of her buying beef for volunteer students spread after Tuan accidentally mentioned it at a neighborhood meeting. At first, many were surprised, then admired her. No one imagined the thrifty woman who collected recyclables daily would quietly run such a large kitchen. Some market vendors met with her, contributing vegetables, rice, even dozens of kilos of fresh fish.

“Let us take care of this part; you can have less burden,” they said.

The volunteer students shared the story online. A post with a photo of Mrs. Lanh standing beside the huge pot of braised beef quickly went viral, shared thousands of times. Some came to donate food in person; others sent money. But what made her happiest was not the money—it was the unity.

“Many strangers yet still trust each other. That is precious,” she said.

Hai completely changed. Every morning, when she arrived, he not only packed the meat but asked, “Do you need more bones for soup today? I’ll pick them for you.” She smiled. “That would be great; the kids love bone soup.”

At the end of the volunteer season, the kitchen held a farewell party. The house was decorated with warm yellow lights, tables filled with food: braised beef, vegetable soup, fruits, and even pastries, previously rare in the kitchen. Before eating, Phuc stood on behalf of the group.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lanh, for giving us the most delicious meals this summer. Thank you for showing us that love and sharing can come from the simplest acts.”

Applause rang out. Mrs. Lanh smiled, eyes misty, then looked at Hai and Tuan, her voice warm but firm. “Sometimes you don’t need a grand reason—just remember that today you give, and tomorrow someone else may give to another, and that’s enough.”

That night, as Hai left the farm, he looked back at the light spilling from the windows. He realized she had lit a different kind of light in people’s hearts—a light of trust, kindness, and the power to inspire. He knew that this story, if told, didn’t need extra drama; it was already a miracle in itself.