The Seven-Billion House and the Birthday Night

The provincial hospital was always overcrowded. Inside the emergency room, my husband, Mr. Lâm, lay motionless, his breathing heavy. The doctor said he needed urgent surgery, requiring a deposit of at least 20 million.

I — Mrs. Hòa, his wife of over thirty years — slumped onto a chair, my calloused hands trembling. We had nothing left of value; all our savings had been spent on medicine. I dialed my son — Phong — praying he could help.

“Phong, your father’s in danger. I need 20 million to pay the hospital fees, please help me!” I pleaded.

The other end was silent for a moment, then Phong’s voice came:
“Mom… I’m busy. Tonight we’re holding a birthday party for my mother-in-law. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

I froze.
“Tomorrow will be too late, son! Your father… he can’t wait.”

Phong hesitated.
“But Mom-in-law already booked a hotel banquet. Years ago, she gave us that seven-billion house… I can’t disrespect her…”

The phone slipped from my hand. One thought echoed in my mind: Seven billion is worth more than your father’s life, son?

That afternoon, I rushed to knock on doors of relatives and friends. Some said they were strapped for cash, others postponed. A whole day passed, and no one could help.

Meanwhile, at a luxury hotel downtown, my son and his wife were busy throwing a grand birthday party for her mother. Lights glittered, guests laughed, glasses clinked.

When I heard, my heart twisted. My husband lay fighting for his life, while my son raised a glass for another.

That night, after running everywhere, I scraped together a few million, still far from enough. Watching Mr. Lâm gasping weakly, my tears flowed endlessly.

“Dear, should we sell the last piece of land my parents left us…” I muttered. But then I thought, that land was for ancestral worship — and even if sold, it wouldn’t be in time.

In despair, I opened the cabinet and pulled out the title deed to our only house in the city — the one under our names. My heart ached. That was meant for Phong, to inherit later. But now, I wondered: Does he still deserve it?

I sat through the night, finally resolving: tomorrow, I would rewrite the will, revoke his inheritance. The house would go to my granddaughter — Phong’s little girl — so she would always have a place to belong. I would not give it to an unfilial son.

The next morning, when Phong and his wife came by, I greeted them with cold eyes.

“How’s Dad, Mom?” he asked, awkwardly.

I turned away, answering curtly:
“Still breathing — barely.”

My daughter-in-law, Thu, forced a smile:
“Sorry we couldn’t come yesterday, we were busy. But my mother’s birthday was very important, hope you understand.”

I clenched the deed tightly, choking with anger:
“Important enough to outweigh your own father’s life? Yesterday I begged you for 20 million, and you refused. Yet you wasted hundreds of millions on a hotel party without blinking…”

Phong lowered his head, silent.

I looked straight at him, my voice firm:
“I’ve decided. This house will no longer belong to you. I’m leaving it to my granddaughter. I won’t let my parents’ legacy fall into the hands of someone who turns his back.”

The room went silent. Thu was stunned. Phong’s lips trembled, tears welled, but he said nothing.

After days of struggle, with the help of kind neighbors, we managed to fund the surgery. Mr. Lâm survived, though much weaker.

I told him about the will. He sat quietly for a long time, then sighed:
“You did what you had to. But he’s still our son. Don’t cut him off completely — for the child’s sake.”

I broke down:
“He’s our flesh and blood, but he abandoned us. What more can I hope for?”

He stayed silent, his old eyes filled with deep sorrow.

Slowly, Phong realized the price of his choice. Friends mocked, neighbors whispered: “Unfilial son — father in hospital, yet he throws a lavish party.” The gossip spread, shaming him and his wife.

One night, Phong quietly came to the hospital, knelt by his father’s bed:
“Dad, I’m sorry. I was wrong. I let material things blind me. I was afraid my wife would blame me, afraid to lose the house from her mother… I was weak.”

Mr. Lâm held his son’s hand and said softly:
“Better late than never. You’ve understood now. But remember: family ties cannot be measured in money.”

Phong burst into tears. For the first time in years, I saw him cry.

A month later, my husband and I officially signed the will, leaving the house to our granddaughter. After signing, I turned to my son:
“I don’t hate you, but I want you to understand: wealth can be lost, but parental love must never be betrayed. Live well, care for your wife and daughter. If you change, I’ll smile peacefully when I’m gone.”

Phong bowed his head, tears streaming. Thu also broke down, clutching their little girl.

Our story quickly spread through the neighborhood. Some sympathized, some criticized, but everyone agreed: no amount of money can ever replace filial piety.

Mr. Lâm slowly recovered, and I cared for him each day. Though I revoked Phong’s inheritance, I still welcomed him home — because my husband was right: “Blood is thicker than water.” Yet the wound remained, a reminder to my son that no extravagant birthday could ever equal the tears of his parents in their time of need.

And that seven-billion house, in the end, was no longer a symbol of gratitude or dependence, but a testament: only genuine family love can hold us together, while material wealth will always fade away like foam on the sea.