Before he died, my father drove my stepmother out of the house. We thought he was afraid of Mrs. Cham fighting us for the inheritance, but unexpectedly, the truth was far beyond what we imagined.

I never expected my father to be so thoughtful and to hide such deep feelings.

I am the youngest daughter in the family, with two older brothers. My mother passed away when I was barely more than a year old—before I even knew what the word “mother” meant, she was already gone. Three years later, my father remarried.

Auntie Cham was a small and quiet woman. I grew up under her care. She cooked porridge and fed it to me spoon by spoon when I was just four years old, looking frail like a three-year-old. She took me to school, picked me up every afternoon. On my first day of first grade, she was as happy as if I were her own biological child. In my memory, my aunt was never a stranger but a “mother.” The only thing was—my two brothers never believed it.

Changing diapers, cooking porridge, spoon-feeding me rice, walking me to school, then waiting silently outside the classroom door like a familiar shadow… in my heart, she was not a stranger, but another kind of “mother.” Only my brothers refused to see it that way.

When Auntie Cham moved in, my brothers were already 10 and 13 years old. They resented her deeply and always rebelled against her. They whispered to each other, “How can she pretend to be so kind?” They often urged me to oppose her too. My eldest brother would say: “You’re foolish. She only takes care of you to please Dad. She’s just a stepmother.” They planted so many doubts in my head, warning me not to be naïve.

At times, I was confused and listened to them. I argued with my aunt, even once maliciously cut up her clothes. But when I later saw her crying alone in her room, I also cried.

As I grew older, I realized more clearly: though not related by blood, she treated me better than my own blood relatives. Why should I oppose her? So I ignored my brothers and became even closer to her, calling her “Mama Cham.”

I once overheard my father gently comforting her, telling her to tolerate my brothers because they had lost their mother too young and grew up with difficult personalities. She only cried and nodded. She never scolded or raised her hand against them, even when they bullied her harshly. Perhaps that’s why they treated her even more cruelly.

Years later, when my brothers got married and moved out, only Father, Auntie, and I remained in the house.

At the beginning of this year, Father became gravely ill. I don’t know what kind of care Auntie gave him, but he seemed irritable and often spoke to her harshly. Sometimes, when my brothers brought their wives and children home to visit, Father even drove Auntie out of the house in front of everyone. Auntie would be saddened, but she stayed, waiting for him to calm down.

Last month, Father called all of us for a family meeting. I arrived last because of work. When I got home, the atmosphere was tense. Auntie was hurriedly packing her belongings into a suitcase. Father said coldly:
“From today on, we have nothing to do with each other. Leave my sight. Don’t bother me again.”

I panicked and tried to ask why, but he gave no explanation. As always, Auntie remained silent. She only looked at me with a sad smile and said: “Don’t say anything, just go.” The sight of her suitcase being carried out the door is an image I will never forget. I wanted to follow her, but Father shouted at me to stop.

Half a month later, Father passed away. The funeral was held quickly, yet Auntie still handled everything as though she were the widow. Afterward, she left again. My brothers didn’t keep her either. They even thought Father had driven her away before his death because he feared she would compete with us for the inheritance.

After Father’s 49th day memorial, the three of us siblings gathered to divide the inheritance. Father left us a piece of land, a three-story house, two plots of farmland, and more. Each of us would take our share.

I thought it was all settled—until the next day, when I met one of Father’s friends. After a short chat, he told me that Father had asked him months ago to buy a house under his name. Father had even signed away all ownership rights. That house belonged entirely to Auntie Cham. This was four months earlier—just one month before Father drove her away.

I was speechless. I never imagined my father would be so cautious, hiding his deepest feelings. He hadn’t been afraid Auntie would fight us for the property—rather, he was afraid we would hurt the gentle woman who had cared for us silently all those years.

I went to Auntie’s new home. It was a small house, but clean, with a sunny little garden. She opened the door with her familiar warm smile, still thin and frail as ever.

After talking with her, I finally understood—Father had been right. If my brothers had found out, they never would have let her live in peace.