At the age of 18, I went to the city to wash dishes for a pho restaurant, hoping that my life would change. After 6 months, I met a tycoon in his 20s who was a regular customer of the restaurant. He sweetly said, “Give me a son to continue the family line, and you will have 300 million, and you can start your life over again.” Upon hearing this, I agreed to move into the apartment he rented, serving him day and night until I got pregnant. Who would have thought that the day my water broke and I gave birth would also be the day he…

It was pouring rain when I got off the bus in Cubao. In my torn backpack were a few old clothes and a piece of paper with my cousin’s phone number on it – she was the one who said she would help me find a job at a canteen near the Araneta Center bus station. I had nothing but a dream of changing my life and a heart that had never known lies.

My name is Maria. I just turned 18, I come from San Jose, Nueva Ecija, and I work for a living with the dream of changing my life. My family is very poor, my father passed away when I was 9, my mother is always sick, my younger brother is in 7th grade and is struggling to make ends meet. I finished 12th grade but I don’t dare to dream of going to university, I just hope to earn a little money to send back to my mother and brother and that will satisfy me.

Thanks to my cousin’s help, I became a dishwasher at a famous canteen in Kamuning, Quezon City . Every day, I woke up at 4am, sweeping, washing dishes, and wiping tables. By night, I was so exhausted that I just wanted to collapse on the thin mattress under the stairs of the workers’ dormitory.

Around the sixth month, I noticed a man who often came to eat pho in the morning, and after finishing his meal, he often ordered a cup of black coffee and sat there for a long time. He wore a white shirt, smelled of luxurious perfume, and once even slipped me 200 pesos, saying “to give you a drink”. I awkwardly refused, but he just smiled, his eyes looking at me unlike those silly men who used to tease me.

His name is  Ronald , 39 years old, working in “real estate” – that’s what he said. Ronald spoke softly and charmingly, making me feel noticed and appreciated. After a few meetings, he invited me out for milk tea, and gradually, he became the one who picked me up every night. I was like a young bird learning to fly for the first time – seeing that love was something that could save a life.

Then one day, Ronald said to me:

“Give birth to a son for me, to continue the family line. Love doesn’t need status. You will have 300,000 pesos, I will take care of your mother and younger sibling. Later, if you want to open a shop or do any business, I will help you.”

My heart pounded when I heard that. 300,000 pesos? I had never dreamed of that amount of money in my life. The prospect of starting a new life, taking care of my mother and my sister, and maybe opening a small hair salon or selling sugarcane juice in front of my hometown school kept flashing through my mind. I agreed.

Ronald rented me a condo in BGC, Taguig. The room was clean, had air conditioning, hot water, and a balcony overlooking the city. I moved in with him as husband and wife – of course, no title, no papers.

Three months later, I was pregnant. Ronald was very happy. He bought supplements every day and called a doctor to come and check me up. He took good care of me like a treasure. I started to believe in fairy tales. My mother in the countryside didn’t know anything, so I hid it – I planned that after giving birth, I would bring a lot of money back to the countryside, rebuild the house for my mother, and buy a new bicycle for my younger brother.

I gave birth on an October afternoon, the weather in Hanoi was gloomy and drizzling. I was in so much pain that I could not bear it, but thinking of my child, I forced myself to endure. The international hospital was clean, the midwife was attentive. The baby boy weighed 3.2kg, had rosy white skin, and wide open eyes. I burst into tears when I heard my child cry for the first time.

But what I didn’t expect was that Ronald wasn’t at the hospital at that moment. He wasn’t home either. He didn’t text or answer his phone. The next day, my phone was locked. I returned to my apartment – the door was locked, the key card didn’t work. The security guard said Ronald had checked out yesterday.

I held my child, sitting in the corridor on the 18th floor, the wind was blowing cold. There was no one left. No money. No place to stay. No relatives. I knew I had been deceived.

I carried my child around the hospital, hoping for help. Everyone looked at me with pity and caution. A nurse gave me a box of milk and said, “Go back to your hometown, it’s hard here.” But where else could I go? I hid my hometown from my mother and had no friends. I called my cousin, but the line was busy. It was not until evening that she answered and said coldly:

“I didn’t know you were doing something so bad. Now take care of yourself, don’t drag me into this.”

I cut off all contact with everyone. I didn’t dare tell my mother the truth, just said “I’m working, everything is fine after giving birth”. My mother cried on the phone, worried about me, but still didn’t know that I was lying on the sidewalk next to my child in the middle of the Hanoi night.

Three days later, I asked to stay temporarily at the house of a cleaning lady I had met at the hospital –  Ms. Sau , a kind-hearted person from the West. She let me stay in the small kitchen, without taking any money, just asking me to help her look after her child during the day while she went to work. I was in tears, carrying my child to the temporary but warm place. The room was only 9 square meters, with a leaky corrugated iron roof, but to me at that time it was better than a palace.

I named my son  Minh Quan  – meaning “wise king”. I vowed to raise him to be a good person, even if it cost me my youth.

The days that followed were a series of days I lived like a shadow. During the day I helped Aunt Sau take care of the children, at night I took on jobs such as folding red envelopes, stamping, assembling ballpoint pens for hire – anything I could do while my child slept. One day I was so hungry that I ate half a loaf of bread and gave the rest to my child to breastfeed.

I went to get my son’s birth certificate – and hit the first wall. No father’s name, no Hanoi household registration. The ward official asked: “Where was he born? Do you have a birth certificate? Who is his father?”
I didn’t know what to say. Ronald had disappeared. His social media accounts were deleted. No ID number, no address. All I had was a blurry photo of him and me in a milk tea shop 7 months ago – no evidence.

A young lawyer named  Tuan , who happened to know the story through an article I posted anonymously on a Facebook group of mothers, texted me:

“You can sue if you have DNA evidence, even if the father denies it. I will help for free.”

I was stunned. Suing? I had never thought of that. But a ray of light flashed. I began to find a way to track down Hung. I went to the old pho restaurant – the owner said he had stopped eating there a long time ago. I went to the old apartment building, asked the old security guard, they said he often drove a white Lexus, with a specific license plate number – so I had a clue.

I searched the car website, looked up the license plate number, then asked an acquaintance who worked at the vehicle inspection service to find the name of the vehicle registration – a name came up:  Ronald , Gia Thinh Real Estate Company Limited. I continued to look it up and discovered that the company had just been exposed for being involved in a land fraud in Bac Ninh.

My heart sank. Ronald was a professional con man.

I decided to go public with my story, posting pictures of me and my child, along with my honest account, on social media – no more hiding. The post attracted thousands of shares, and then a reporter from an online newspaper contacted me wanting to interview me.

The article was published, and a wave of public opinion poured in on Ronald. Another girl texted me, saying that he had also abandoned her while she was pregnant, but had an abortion out of fear. Then another mother sent a photo of her son – who looked shockingly like Minh Quan.

I filed a petition with the district court, asking for free support from lawyer Tuan. It took nearly half a year, thanks to public pressure and mandatory DNA testing, for the court to force Ronald to recognize the child, pay monthly child support, and publicly apologize for abandoning me and my child.

But for me, alimony is not as important as recognition. Minh Quan has a legal father on paper. I have a legitimate name to register temporary residence, work, and send my child to school later.

Two years later…

I am no longer the little girl who washed dishes. I have learned the spa trade, opened a small shop near Nga Tu So, and supported myself and my son. Minh Quan is now 2 years old, knows how to call “mommy” and knows how to kiss my cheek every morning.

Ronald no longer dared to appear, and no one pitied me anymore. Someone asked: “Do you hate him?” – I smiled lightly:

“If I hadn’t fallen, I would still be a dreamer. Now, I’m awake. And stronger than ever.”

THE END.